


when by the vision led

by andlookedawhile



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, pairings are mostly background
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andlookedawhile/pseuds/andlookedawhile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a summer apart, two brothers reunite in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.  The Apocalypse is now, and destiny, or whatever, says they're the only two people in the world with the power to stop it.</p>
<p>Two thousand miles away, the archangel Gabriel's search for Sam Winchester leads him to a small town in California.  There he finds a boy--the boy Sam spent his distant summer with, the boy Sam now considers friend--</p>
<p>And something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. that on the secret top

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this fic comes from Paradise Lost. Book I, if you want to look for it. So does the chapter title. Also Book I.
> 
> I don't own Supernatural or Teen Wolf. There's also a little bit of a Doctor Who reference in this particular chapter.
> 
> This fic takes place at the beginning of Supernatural Season 5 and at the end of Teen Wolf Season 2. Just pretend that they take place in the same year. Because reasons. :)
> 
> This is unbetaed, and I am super comma happy, and I know it, but I can’t help it. So if you see any huge mistakes, let me know!
> 
> This is also kind of an experimental style. The first chapter is from Stiles’ POV, and I tried to capture him? I don’t know how well it worked out, though. I want to write the way the characters would think.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3

_September, 2009_

 

“Fuck off,” Stiles says.

Gabriel--the _archangel_ Gabriel, as in the _Messenger_ of _God_ Gabriel--leans back against the passenger side door and chews on his licorice and pulls a face. 

“No can do, kiddo,” he says.  “Not until you answer my question, at least.  So just.  Answer it.  Do us both a favor.  And make it quick.  Smells like a jock strap in here.”

Stiles does not blush.  He absolutely _does not blush._ Who cares if an archangel thinks his jeep smells like ass?  It’s not _his_ jeep.  What the hell would an archangel do with a jeep in Heaven, anyway?  Also, he didn't pay for it.  Stiles did.  Stiles cut Mrs. Henderson’s lawn for three straight summers to pay for this jeep and he is perfectly within his rights to stink it up.  He could store baggies upon baggies of dog shit in here and it wouldn't be anyone’s business but his own.  Gabriel could take his overly sensitive nose and shove it right up his--

Gabriel’s eyebrow is lifting.  A smirk is forming around the licorice hanging out of his mouth.  Oh, Jesus Christ, he can read minds.  Oh, shit.  Oh, God.  Of course he can read minds, he’s an archangel and the Messenger of God and oh, fuck, Stiles is going to be smited--

“Dude,” Gabriel says.  “Chill.  Nobody’s gonna get _smited_ , or whatever.  Just, talk to me.  All right?  Painless.”

“I don’t even know what you want me to say, though,” Stiles points out.  And he doesn't.  Dude hadn't exactly been clear when he had just _popped up out of nowhere_ in the passenger’s seat.  Stiles has seen some shit in his day, but that had nearly resulted in some soiled underwear.   

Gabriel rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, sighing the sigh of the infinitely long suffering.  “Just, Sam Winchester.” 

“Okay?”

“ _Anything_ ,” Gabriel seems genuinely pained by his stupidity.  His expression is definitely constipated.  Stiles would be more insulted, he thinks, but, you know, archangel.  Guy probably thinks everyone he meets is stupid, eons of experience and all.  “Anything you can tell me.”

“I don’t,” Stiles starts.  “I mean, he eats organic?”

“Kid, _seriously_ ,” Gabriel leans forward, and Stiles immediately leans back.  His heart has somehow twisted itself up in his stomach and they've both somehow crawled up his throat.  Gabriel might try to wipe him off the face of the planet for being too slow, but Stiles is _definitely_ going to puke on him first.  Which, _victory_.  Sort of.  “I _know_ Sam Winchester eats organic.  I _know_ he likes to go for morning runs.  And, so help me, if you start telling me about his affection for the Discovery Channel, I cannot be held accountable for my actions.”

Stiles is fully capable of getting annoyed, even through pants-wetting terror, what with all the shit he’s been through in the past year.  Gabriel is new, and kind of a curve ball, but it’s not as if he didn't know that angels are a thing before now.  And he’s acclimating.  Pretty quickly, if he does say so himself.  And he does.  A person can only have his or her life threatened so many times before becoming kind of numb to the whole experience.  Stiles has had claws held to his throat, a gun held to his head, been chased through a darkened high school by a rabid alpha, looked straight into the black eyes of an honest-to-god demon and, shit.  He’s kind of over the whole paralyzed-with-fear thing.  Terror is a secondary emotion for him these days.  He can feel other things around it.  

And of course that new ability is going to rear its ugly head now.  Never let it be said that he has any instincts of self preservation.

“Dude, if you know so much about him, why are you even talking to me?”

Gabriel stares at him for a long moment.  Without blinking.  His body completely still.  Like a weird, dressed-like-a-logger statue of Gabriel instead of Gabriel himself.  It’s weird.  And creepy.  And scary, like, _real_ scary, not _implied_ scary.  But Stiles does not whimper, or shake, or prostrate himself against the front seat and beg for his life.  Though, it is a very near thing.  But, he still doesn't do it!  And he feels like he may have won, there, with that.

Finally: “You’re an unrepentant little shit, aren't you?”

“I've heard that before,” Stiles admits, a little breathless.  

“I’m sure you have.  Now, tell me exactly where you last saw Sam Winchester.”

Well, that’s certainly more straightforward.  Stiles blinks.  And blinks again.  

This, he finally _really_ realizes, is absolutely going to end in his own gruesome death.  

“No,” he tells Gabriel firmly before he can chicken out.  “No, ask me anything else, but I’m definitely not telling you that.”

All that earns him is another long stare.  Maybe he thinks he can wait Stiles out, freak him out enough that he’ll break down and spill the beans.  Which, not gonna happen.  Nope.  Dream on, angel boy.  Gabriel eventually lifts his eyebrow again, though whether in response to the thought or to Stiles’ determination to keep his mouth shut, Stiles can’t even begin to guess.  

“You do understand,” he says, “the gravity of your current situation, don’t you?”

“Archangel in my car,” Stiles recites dutifully, “says no smiting, but will definitely smite if I don’t tell him what he wants to hear.  I get it.  But still, no can do.  Sorry, bro.”

“Don’t call me bro,” Gabriel says, almost absently.  Then: “Why not?”

“ _Why not_?  Are you serious?”

“I’m dead fucking serious, kid.  I could reduce you to absolutely nothing.  Like, _literally_ nothing.  You’d cease to exist.  Right here, right now, with a flick of my wrist.”

“Yeah?”

A squint.  “So why not share?  Save your own skin, you know?”

Stiles shrugs.  “Seems like an asshole thing to do.”

Gabriel frowns a little.

“I mean,” Stiles adds, to be helpful, “I don’t know much about his situation, but I know enough to know that he definitely doesn’t want to be talking to any angels.”

The frown becomes a scowl.

“I’m not with _them_ ,” the _angel_ snaps.   _Them_ rolls off his tongue like something dirty.

“‘Them’ as in heaven?” Stiles asks, maybe a little stupidly.  “Dude, oh, my god.  Are you with _Hell?_ ”

Gabriel shoots him a look so nasty, it actually makes the jeep smell a little bit better in comparison.  But just a little.

“Of course I’m not with fucking Hell,” he says flatly.  “Lucifer’s literally the biggest asshole in all of creation.  Jesus Christ, kid, how do you make it through the day?”

Stiles sits up straighter, affronted.  “Hey, dude, you’re giving me, like, zero to go on, of course I’m gonna make assumptions--”

“ _And_ ,” Gabriel says loudly, deliberately speaking over him.  Stiles does not pout.  He doesn't.  “I haven’t even been an angel in, like, a few millennium.  At least.  So, definitely not working with any of them.  I don’t even think we’re on speaking terms.”

“Why?”

Another dirty look.  “That’s none of your business, you little shit.”

Stiles throws up his hands.  “All I’m saying,” he says, because if he’s going to die a brutal death at the hands of an archangel today, he’s going to get as much out of his as he can, “is that not-on-speaking-terms-with-Heaven sounds an awful lot like some Devil shit to me.”

Gabriel looks at him, and looks at him, and then smirks.  There’s a crack, sudden and sharp and too-loud in the tiny space of the jeep interior, and Stiles actually leaps backward, wrapping his arms around the headrest behind him.  He might even shriek a little.  Which, smiting seems imminent, so he’s allowed.

“Chill,” Gabriel says easily as Stiles tries desperately to become one with the driver side door.  “Check your pockets.”

Stiles hesitates, and continues to clutch the headrest hard enough that his arms actually hurt a little.  He doesn't take his eyes off the archangel in the passenger’s seat.  Then, when said archangel just chews some more on his licorice--and how is it not completely gone yet, he’s been gnawing on it long enough--he reaches with one hand to his left jeans pocket, the one he shoved his cell in as he was leaving the school.  He fumbles a little, but eventually manages to reach inside--

And instead of his phone, pulls out an honest-to-god vibrator.  

Gabriel wiggles his eyebrows creepily.

“Nice phone,” he says.

Stiles holds the vibrator up in the air between them, pinched between his thumb and pointer finger, small and purple and egg-shaped.  It swings a little.  Gabriel continues to smirk.

There is a strained pause.

“Did you seriously just,” Stiles says faintly, “use your heavenly powers to turn my cell phone into a vibrator?”

“Kid, trust me,” Gabriel says, “I've used my _heavenly powers_ for much worse than a little vibrator.”

“But,” Stiles protests.

“Kid,” Gabriel says again, “just go with it, seriously.”

“Fine,” Stiles drops the vibrator.  It bounces once, and then it just sort of sits there on the seat between them, all innocent-like.  Silent.  Unmoving.  It also looks sort of familiar.  He swears he’s seen one just like it in a porno.  Recently.

“I’ll change it back into your phone,” Gabriel says after a moment, “if you tell me where you last saw Sam.”

Stiles exhales through his nose.  It’s loud.  Gross.  Snotty.  Must be fall allergies.  At least, he hopes he’s not getting a cold.  He hasn't even made it through one week of school yet.  He wipes his now-damp upper lip in what he hopes is an inconspicuous way.  Gabriel ignores him, continues to endlessly chew on his licorice.

“I can’t, Gabriel,” he says.  “Sam’s my friend.  I’m not going to screw him like this.”

“What makes you think you’d be screwing him?”

Stiles blinks.

“Uh--”

“Just because I’m sort of an angel,” Gabriel says, placing a hand over the spot on his chest where his heart should be, feigning hurt.  Stiles wonders vaguely if it actually is in there.  Or if he even has a heart at all.  He knows this isn't his true form--Sam, a little drunk and a lot pissy, had talked about _vessels_ , which had sounded not at all creepy and definitely a little gross.  And, obviously, Gabriel’s vessel must have a heart, because the dude was human before an archangel took him for a ride.  But, like, angels?  Having hearts for themselves?

“He seemed pretty pissed at angels in general,” Stiles says before he can get too lost in his own weird angel thoughts.  Gabriel rolls his eyes again.

“He’s got enough reason,” he admits.  “And, also, to answer your question, no.”

“No what?”

“No, we don’t have hearts.”

Stiles stares.

“Because you’d need a corporeal form to have a heart,” Gabriel continues.  “At least, in the human sense.  Which, we do not.”

Stiles can’t help it.  He leans forward a little.  Eager.  And, whatever, maybe Gabriel’s offering this information up to lure him into some kind of false sense of security.  Actually, he’s definitely doing that, but.  It’s _interesting_ , okay?  “What do you have, then?” he asks.  He barely manages to keep the breathless anticipation out of his voice.  Barely.

“Grace,” Gabriel says, “like, pure spirit, I guess, in human terms.  Light.  Wind.  Chaos.  A little bit beyond your human imagination, no offense.”

“ _Cool._ ”  He doesn't manage to hide his excitement this time, but, sue him.  He’s talking to an _archangel_ about what _angels_ look like _outside of human skin_.  Sam hadn't wanted to talk about it, or else he hadn't known much.  And Stiles has a lot of curiosity, and he needs it sated, okay?  And it is _cool._  So fuck off with the judgements, _world_.

“You’re taking this very well,” Gabriel says.  “Like, _very_ well.  You didn't even blink when I introduced myself.”

“I spent a summer with Sam Winchester,” Stiles points out.  “I was bound to see some shit.”

Gabriel smirks.  “Fair enough.  Angel shit, though?”

“Nah, never got that far,” Stiles leans back against the door again.  “Mostly demon shit.”

A grimace.  “Nice.”

“We _exorcised_ him,” Stiles knows he sounds too excited again, but whatever.  Being there, helping Sam, that was a fucked up experience, there’s no denying it, but it was also awesome.  Like, super awesome.  He helped send a demon back to Hell!  How many people can say that, seriously?

“Duh,” Gabriel says.  Then: “You've got some of your own experience, though, don’t you?”

Stiles hesitates, caught off guard for a moment.  Until he remembers, of course.

“Stop reading my mind, you asshole!  Oh, my god!”

Gabriel tuts.  “Is it really wise to call an archangel an asshole?” he says, and then pauses to let it sink in.  But Stiles won’t give him the satisfaction of a flinch, or a look of pure terror.  He can’t really control his heart, though, and the traitorous little bastard does start to beat a little faster.  Gabriel smirks.   _Again._  Then: “Werewolves and kanimas and hunters, oh my!”

“Leave them out of this,” Stiles snaps.  His nails are digging into his palms.  He’s going to have some lingering grooves.  Souvenirs of an encounter with an archangel!  So awesome!  Not.  “They've got nothing to do with it.”

“Kid, it’s the end of the fucking world,” Gabriel says, like it’s fucking _reasonable_.  “Of course they've got something to do with it.   _Everyone’s_ got something to do with it.”

Stiles scowls and sucks in a deep breath.  In preparation for a launch.  Into a rant.  Like, full rant-mode.  Righteous ranting.  Because, like, seriously, _fuck_ angels.  And demons.  Who told them they could start a heavenly war?  Not people, that’s for sure.  And he is going to _rant_ about it.  Rant until someone listens.  God, preferably.  God could put a stop to this shit show, surely--

Until he realizes that it--what Gabriel said--it kind of _is_.  Reasonable, that is.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he exhales.  He feels like he’s deflating.  Losing all substance.  Maybe disappearing, but just a little.

“Again, chill,” Gabriel says.  “I’m not going to do anything to your furry friends.  If they’re even your friends, that is,” he pauses again, for emphasis, and Stiles pulls the nastiest look he can muster out of his ass.  Because, rude.  Those thoughts and feelings are _private._  “I’m just saying.  You know better than most how fucked up everything’s about to get.”

“And?” Stiles crosses his arms.  “So?  What does that have to do with telling you where Sam is?  For all I know, you’re just going to make it worse.”

“Or,” Gabriel says, holding up one finger.  His tone is positively oozing mockery.  It’s gross.  “And, stay with me here, because this might be difficult for your tiny human mind to follow.  Maybe I want to find Sam because I want to help make things _better._ ”

Stiles makes a show of considering this.  He tilts his head back.  He looks through the windshield and examines the sky.  The clouds are pulsing weirdly.  Like they’re following a beat of a song only they can hear.  And it’s grey.  Like, _super_ grey.  Oncoming-storm-grey.  Apocalypse grey, and isn't that a delightful thought?  Then he says, with all the meaning in the world, “Shut the fuck up.”

Gabriel sighs again, “Stiles.”

“Hey, man, I don’t think I gave you permission to use my nickname.”

“Would you rather I use your real name, then?”

Stiles scowls.  Gabriel grins.

“Just--” Stiles really, _really_ doesn't know what to say here.  Like, at all.  Because he recognizes the magnitude of the situation.  He gets it.  This isn't alpha werewolves or hunters or giant, humanoid lizards being controlled by vengeful teens.  Which, while horrible and terrifying and enormous, are at least contained.  And also stuff he can handle.  Mostly.  But this--it goes beyond him, and it goes beyond Beacon Hills.  The entire world is in the balance here, which is why--it’s why he pushed Sam to go back to his brother and their angel, because--because he knows, he _knows_ , that if anyone has a chance in hell at stopping this, it’s Sam.  It’s _Sam._ And Gabriel is probably lying.  Is probably working for one side or the other, because he’s an angel and everything Sam ever told him about angels suggests that there’s always an agenda.  And while he can’t even begin to imagine what Gabriel’s game is, he still has to assume that it’s there, waiting to fuck everything up, but--if there is a chance, however minuscule--

“Tell you what,” Gabriel says, and Stiles jumps a little.  It’s not that he forgot the archangel was in the car--as if that could ever happen--but he’d been so silent and still and, well, whatever.  It startled him, okay?  “Think about it.”

“What?”

“Take a few days.  Weigh your options.”  He looks at Stiles meaningfully, sincerely, and, he realizes, it would be _so easy_ to fall for it.  It would.  He gets, now more than ever, why Sam and his brother got so fucked up.  These cosmic beings.  They twist humanity all around and inside out and upside down, and it is tempting, it is so _very tempting,_ to just let them do it.  To not fight back.  To do whatever they ask and forget to look for reasons _why_.  It’s not a level playing field.  It’s not fair.  He needs to get away from Gabriel before his head gets too turned around to realize the consequences of whatever choice he makes.

“Fine,” he says stiffly.

“Call Sam, even,” Gabriel suggests.  “Tell him I’d like to see him again.”

“Sure,” Stiles says.  “All the better for you to listen in, right?”

“I won’t,” Gabriel lifts his right hand into the air, puts his left over the space his heart would have been, if he’d had one.  “I swear I won’t.”

“Whatever,” Stiles says.  He turns in his seat, settles his feet on the floor.  Puts his hands on the steering wheel and the gear shift, his toes on the brakes.  Doesn't look at Gabriel.  A clear dismissal.   _Leave.  Get the message.  Leave so I can_ think _._

“Okay,” Gabriel says, “but, remember, Stiles.  I want to see Sam _again._ ” 

“Dude, _okay_ , I get it.  Now get the fuck out of my car, _Jesus_.”

“ _Fine_ , damn.”  Gabriel actually sounds annoyed.  Which, Stiles should probably be concerned about that, but just can’t bring himself to care too much just now.  And the archangel does hesitate, which should also be a little frightening, but all he does is pass a hand through the air between them.  “A gesture of good faith,” he says.  Stiles does nothing but nod.  His jaw is clenched so tightly that it’s honestly a miracle it doesn't shatter, collapse in on itself.

There is a shift in the air.  Stiles blinks, glances, and Gabriel and his licorice are gone.

 

\--

 

It isn't until he pulls into his driveway fifteen minutes later that he realizes that the vibrator went with him.  His phone sits on the seat in its place.  Undamaged.  Stiles picks it up and turns it on.

The wallpaper has been changed to a picture of boobs.  Just boobs.  Nice ones, but still.

_Asshole._


	2. sit lingering here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Paradise Lost, Book II. 
> 
> I am debating crossover femslash, but I’m scared. I don’t want it to seem forced. BUT, if the story takes me in that direction, I’m going all in. Just so you know!
> 
> Also, “romantic” scenes are definitely one of my weaknesses. Let me know how I can improve!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! :)

Revelation 8:11 says, “And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.”  (Text taken from the King James version of the Bible)

_August, 2009_

_20 miles outside of Provo, Utah_

The world is still green.  

Ellen resents it, almost.  The end times have arrived, and Lucifer and a horde of demons walk the earth, but the leaves are still on the trees.  The grass still grows lush and strong beneath their feet.  The sky remains bright and blue.  The planet continues to spin.  Ellen doesn't understand it.  Perhaps God, or Heaven, maintains the facade to offer some small comfort, but, if anything, it feels more like mockery.  Humanity doesn't know.  Humanity doesn't know, and each day, each hour, each minute, each second, they tick closer and closer and closer to extinction.  Nobody sees it, and the few people who do, the few who know--their power is limited.  They are grossly outmatched.  Ellen will do what she can, obviously, and she will fight and fight and fight until the breath finally leaves her, but she sees it for what it is.  Humanity is caught between Heaven and Hell, and its chances aren't looking good.

It is barely after seven in the morning, and the parking lot already feels as if a fire has been lit beneath it.  The temperature is at least cooperating with the coming Apocalypse, or so Ellen would think, but this is relatively normal for Utah at the height of summer.  Changes in climate will not be noticeable until late fall, or even early winter, and by then it may be too late to matter, or else there won’t be enough people left to notice the difference.  Ellen will not linger on it until then.  It is a waste of time.

“So?” Garth asks.  His voice is jarring, too-loud in the deserted summer morning.  “What do you think?  Is it Wormwood?”

“ _A_ Wormwood,” Marin says quietly.  She holds the bottle of dirt close to her face, her brow furrowed, her mouth a hard line.  “And, possibly.”

“What do you mean, _a_ Wormwood?” Garth crosses his arms.  Defensive.  He does not like what Marin is suggesting.  Neither does Ellen, frankly, though she keeps her mouth shut.  Waits.  “Revelation says--”

“I would not hold Revelation as gospel truth,” Marin cuts him off.  She turns the little bottle slowly in front of her narrowed eyes.  The dirt, unnaturally grey, looks dead in the low morning sunlight.

“What do you mean?” Garth asks sharply.

“Revelation was written by humans.”  The bottle disappears into Marin’s fist, and then into her bag, large and red and checkered.  The other woman is not dressed for the weather--a dark leather jacket, dark jeans, dark boots.  Sunglasses sit low on her nose.  She pushes them up the next moment, hides her eyes.  

“Humans dictated to by angels,” Ellen points out.  Marin glances at her, quick, searching, unreadable behind dark lenses.  

“Angels,” she echoes.  “Do you think it wise to follow the script of angels to the letter?”

It’s a good point.  

“Lucifer won’t,” Marin continues.  “He can’t afford to, not if he wants to win.”

Valid.  An awful thought, an idea that puts them at even greater a disadvantage--because, at least, if Lucifer would cooperate and follow the timeline laid out by the Bible, then they would at least know his moves before he makes them.  Or as he makes them.  This--improvisation on the part of the Devil--it tastes like death at the back of Ellen’s throat.  She closes her eyes.

There is a pause.

“That doesn't make me feel any better,” Garth says finally.  “If anything, it makes me feel worse.”

Marin just smiles--a hard smile, a bitter smile, but a smile nonetheless.  Ellen has known her for close to ten years now, and she has seen an expression like this on her face before.  It does not inspire confidence.

“Are you taking the Wormwood to your brother?” she asks, burying her hands in her pockets.  Standing stiff.  At attention.  

Marin mirrors her stance.  The bag hangs loose at her waist.

They are all of them soldiers now.

“Yes,” she says.  “I’m sorry you couldn't see him yourself.  He’s gotten himself caught up in a local dispute.”

“Yeah, he said.”  Alan had sounded exhausted and irritated over the phone, and had explained that _strange hunters_ would not go over well in the _new_ Beacon Hills, at least not yet, not with _tensions_ running as high as they apparently are.  Ellen does not know what that means, cannot begin to guess what that means, and cannot afford to care what that means.  Alan has always maintained a relationship with local supernatural populations, had even been an Emissary for a pack of werewolves for a while, if rumor can be believed.  He can handle himself.  Ellen has always trusted his judgement.  And the Apocalypse takes precedent.  The Apocalypse will always take precedent.

“The poor fools have no idea,” Marin says, a little wistfully.  “They’re fighting their little wars, and they’re negotiating their little treaties, and they have no idea that the world is collapsing around them.”

Envy.  Ellen hears it in the words, faint, but there.  And she understands it completely.

“Here’s hoping they never find out,” Garth says firmly.

Marin looks at him thoughtfully for a moment.  Almost pleasantly surprised.  Ellen echoes the sentiment.  Garth has been painfully quiet in the two days they have spent together, his usual carefree nature, his unflappable optimism absent, leaving gaping holes in their every interaction.  She cannot help but smile a little at the earnest look on Garth’s face now.  

He still has hope.  And if he does, they all should.  They will have well and thoroughly lost the war when Garth finally gives up his faith.

“Indeed,” Marin finally says.  Her face has softened considerably.  “We can only hope.”

\--

_July, 2009_

_Beacon Hills, California_

Boyd is not entirely sure how he got here.

They’re in McDonald’s, tucked into one of many red booths.  Hidden in the far corner.  Private, or as private as one can get in a fast food restaurant.  Erica has her hand on his thigh, and she’s kissing him slowly, deeply, and with tongue--nothing to get parents of young children up in arms, not yet, but enough that his pants are getting a little tight.  It’s late, and the parking lot outside is nearly empty of cars.  The only other person dining in is a guy in a business suit, and he’s too busy texting furiously to pay any attention to the two of them.  Not that Boyd would care if he were.  Boyd isn't sure he’d stop if they had an audience of five thousand.  Erica is the only person in the world, as far as he’s concerned.

She hums, and they’re pressed close enough that it rumbles, _shudders_ through him.  Boyd lifts one of his hands from her waist to her hair.  Weaves his fingers through it, long and blonde and soft.  Her mouth opens against him, and she breathes--moist, on his lips and the tip of his nose, and smelling like french fries.  He likes it.  He likes it a lot.

The business guy apparently makes a phone call.  Boyd hears him calling someone a _douche bag_ and a _thief_.  Erica giggles a little, and starts to crawl into his lap, and Boyd hooks an arm beneath one of her thighs to help her, to better her leverage.

Her hair smells like strawberries.  He buries his nose in it when she stops kissing his mouth in favor of his neck--tiny, fluttering pecks that trace his pulse.  He can’t catch his breath.  She smells like strawberries, and fries, and salt, and root beer, and rotting eggs--

Boyd blinks, withdraws a little.  Erica makes a little, disappointed sound, drawing back to look at him, her eyes large and dark in her face.

“Are you okay?”

Boyd shakes his head a little.  The toxic-rotting-eggs smell lingers, but it seems faded, aged, and he’s not sure how he didn't notice it before.  Or rather, he _knows_ why he didn't notice it, but it’s strange enough, unsettling enough, that even with Erica pressing her mouth to his--

“Do you smell that?” he asks quietly.  

Erica blinks.  Business suit is gesturing wildly with his free hand, his knuckles white where he holds his phone to his ear--

“Smell what?”

Boyd twists to peer around her shoulder.  Other than the guy on the phone, there’s nothing weird, nothing that stands out.  The scent, as suddenly as it was pungent, has now faded to the point where he’s not even sure he’d smelled it at all.  Except for where he is.  He knows he smelled it because it lingers in his nostrils--sharp, biting.  It twists his stomach.  

“That--like rotting eggs.  Like something’s dying,” Boyd looks at her, but Erica only cocks her head, her eyebrows lowering.

“No,” she says slowly, drawing the word out, uncertain.

“It’s fading now,” Boyd shifts, uncomfortable now.  Erica looks worried, and that’s the last thing he wants.  Because both of them spent so many weeks worried, scared, cornered, and it’s over now and all he wants for her is happiness, and he wants to be the one to give it to her, and this, this is definitely not the way to go about it.  He pulls a smile onto his face.  “Forget it.  I probably imagined it.  It smells weird in here, anyway.”

Erica studies him for a moment, frowning a little.

“Boyd,” she says.  “Don’t lie to me.  You didn't imagine it, you--”

She stops.  Wrinkles her nose.  Her eyes shoot to his, round.

“I smell it,” she whispers.

Boyd’s stomach twists itself up, bunching under his lungs.  It’s suddenly difficult to breathe.

“Don’t,” he says.  “You don’t have to pretend--”

“I’m not,” Erica snaps.  “I smell it!  I--”

She twists in her seat, staring around the dining room.  Business suit ends his call and slams his phone down on the table, buries his face in his hands.  

“It’s coming from there,” Erica hisses, pointing two booths down.  Then she looks at him.  With fear.

They don’t speak before they stand.  Together.  Erica reaches backward for his hand--he takes it, laces their fingers together.  Her palm is sweaty, and so is his, and he is, for a moment, back in the preserve, surrounded, seemingly on all sides, by men with guns.  Boyd blinks, and blinks again, and swallows.  They start forward slowly, moving as one, bracing themselves.

Boyd does not know what he expects.  Anything, really.  Something dying, maybe.  Something already  _dead_.  Now that he has an origin, something to focus on, the scent comes to him in waves--it is old, faded, but he can pick it out, separate it from the oil, the beef, the potatoes and chicken and _etcetera_ coming from the kitchens.  It settles in the back of his throat, hot and heavy and harsh.  He has trouble swallowing around it.

The booth is empty.

Erica is squeezing his hand hard enough to grind the bones together.  He barely notices.  The booth is empty, but now that they are beside it, the scent is nearly overpowering.  His eyes water.  Erica looks on the verge of being physically ill.

“What is it?” she whispers.  “What do you think it is?”

Boyd shakes his head.  Doesn't trust himself to speak.  Isn't sure he won’t puke if he opens his mouth.

“I feel sick,” she says.  “I've never--have you ever smelled _anything_ like this?”

“No,” Boyd says it, and then swallows back bile.  “Do you think--do you think we should call Derek?”

The nauseous look immediately disappears from Erica’s face.  A scowl forms in its place.  Erica looks away from him, into the empty booth, her jaw set.  She takes her hand from his.

“No,” she says coldly.  “What the hell is Derek gonna do about it?”

“I don’t--”

But she speaks over him: “It’s just a _smell_ , Boyd.”

It’s obvious even as she says it that she doesn't believe it.

Business suit crosses the dining room to throw his trash away with far more noise than is really necessary.  He even kicks the trash can.  Erica shoots him a nasty look.  He doesn't notice.

“Erica,” Boyd says quietly.

“Let’s leave,” she says.  “I’m done.  Are you done?”

“I’m done,” he agrees.  He sounds tired to his own ears.

“Okay.”  She takes his hand back, starts to pull him back to the table--there’s only one bit of trash there, the sad, crumpled remnants of a small bag of fries.  Erica picks it up with her free hand and makes a beeline for the door.

“Erica,” he says quietly as she pauses beside the trash can.  “We’ll have to talk about it eventually.”

She stops.  Her shoulders tighten.  Her grip is just this side of painful.  Boyd holds his breath, squeezes her hand back as best he can, comforting.  The kid working the cash register is staring at them.  Boyd wants to snarl at him to give them _some goddamn privacy, fuck._

Finally, in a small voice: “Not tonight.  Just--not tonight.”

Boyd closes his eyes.  

“Soon,” Erica adds, _promises_.  “Soon, but not--let’s just go back to my house, okay?  We can talk about it later.”

It’s the same old refrain.  The same old refrain.  Over and over and over again since school ended and summer began.  They are moving forward, but they are also stuck.  Trapped.  Held back by things unresolved.  Boyd inhales.  Exhales.  Steps closer to Erica.  Wraps an arm around her waist and rests his chin on her shoulder.

“Okay,” he says.  Sadly.

 

\--

_September, 2009_

_Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

The universe finally takes pity on Sam.  Dean and Cas and Bobby are all in the basement when Stiles calls.

“Hey,” he says--quietly, because the last thing he needs is Dean or Bobby coming upstairs and asking him who’s called.   _Oh, just the sixteen year old boy I spent the summer hanging out with._  Yes, that would definitely go over well.   _Spectacularly_ well.

“Heeeeyyyy,” Stiles says, the word drawn out, goofy, absurd.  Sam closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose.  Because Stiles can’t actually see him through the phone.  And because he was wrong.   _This_ is definitely the last thing he needs.

“Are you drunk?” he asks, resigned.  The poor kid.  He’d been unhappy when he’d first come into Sam’s orbit, and continued Winchester influence had only fucked him up more.  Sam had been afraid of that.  Not afraid enough to send him away, because never let it be said that Sam isn't a selfish piece of shit, but afraid all the same.  And guilty.  Guilty, because he’d known he’d only damage the kid’s already fragile state of mind even more.  And this, here, this is what he’d wrought.  It’s four in the afternoon.  Four in the afternoon in South Dakota, which meant two in the afternoon in California.   _Two_ in the _afternoon._  Fuck.

_Fuck._

“No,” Stiles says.  Insists.  He sounds genuinely insulted.  Sam blinks.

“Then why do you sound like--”

“Dude, just, no.  No.  I’m not drunk.  I just--do you have a sec?”

Sam leans back against his chair.  Settles in.  He could say that he hadn't been hoping for this.  A call.  A conversation.  Talking and listening and talking back.  Understanding.  He could say he hadn't been hoping for it, but it would be a filthy lie.  

He’s been on the verge of calling Stiles himself for days.

“Sure,” he says.  “Sure, I've got time.  What’s up?”

Stiles takes a deep breath.  A very deep breath.  

“So, I was leaving school, and my jeep was parked in the parking lot, and so I went out there, you know, to drive myself home, and I looked at it before I got in, and it was empty, but then I got in and there was this fucking _guy_ just sitting in the passenger seat, like, _whatever_.”

Sam’s throat closes.  He straightens.  Stiffens.  Braces his free hand on the table.

“Who was it?” he asks sharply in the pause--Stiles is drawing breath again, in preparation, but it sounds nervous, frantic, and it sets Sam’s teeth on edge.  “Are you in trouble?”

“No!” Stiles says quickly.  “ _No_ , he just--he wanted to talk.”

“About _what?_ ”

Stiles hesitates.  Sam can picture the look on his face: pinched, strained.  He braces himself.

“You,” the kid finally says.  “He wanted to talk about you.”

Of _fucking_ course.

Sam closes his eyes.  Leans forward.  Presses his forehead to the cool wood of the table in front of him.  Forces himself to breathe.

“Was it a demon?”

“No,” Stiles says.  There’s a hint of something like hysteria in his voice now.  Shaky.  Like he’s in shock.  Like he can’t believe what just happened to him.  But Sam can.  Sam should’ve fucking seen it coming, he should’ve--

“If he hurt you,” he says, harsh, “if he threatened you in anyway--”

But Stiles cuts him off.  Breathless.  Almost in awe.  “Dude,” he says.  “Dude, it was fucking _Gabriel_.”


	3. take to heart what is written

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I can’t say this enough. I love you guys! <3
> 
> The title of this chapter is from Revelation 1:3.

_September, 2009_

_Beacon Hills, California_

Sam does not respond immediately.  This is not surprising, not really, because angels are one thing, but the _most_ famous angel?  Or, second-most-famous, because Lucifer probably takes the title of most famous, even if people don’t think of him as an angel so much anymore.  Which, Stiles wonders if that pisses him off.  The Devil.  If he could possibly be annoyed or insulted or even mildly hurt by the way the majority of human history has viewed him.  Demon.  Monster.  Outcast.  The biggest liar of all liars who lie.  Stiles thinks he would probably be upset, if he were in Lucifer’s shoes, and he regularly attends a school where people look at him as either a pain in the ass or useless.  Or a mixture of the two.  And those are just teenagers, a smattering of particularly bitter and vicious adults tossed in here and there, as Stiles comes and goes in their classes.  Lucifer has been solidly hated on by an entire species for, like, a few millenia.  Must suck.

Not that he feels bad for the Devil.  Dude wants to end the world, which, that’s not cool.  That’s not cool at all.

“If he threatened you in anyway,” Sam says again.  It does not sound nearly as angry or aggressive or even enthusiastic as it did moments before.  Stiles wonders if he should be a bit irritated by that--an _archangel_ was _in his car_ and could have _smited_ him--smote him?--and it had been _deeply terrifying,_ okay?  He had nearly _peed in his pants_.  It takes some seriously fucked up shit to make him nearly pee his pants.

But.  “He didn't,” Stiles says, instead of poking at it.  The lack of enthusiasm.  Sam had always gotten distant and dull and dark-cloudy whenever angels had come up over the summer.  It’s pretty par for the course.  And, like, Stiles knows he cares, or whatever.  He doesn't need blistering rage over a phone line to see that.  “No, he just wanted me to tell him where you are.”

A silence.  Zero response, not even any heavy, angry breathing.  And Stiles can picture him--large, but somehow, inexplicably diminished, hunched over a table in some shitty motel room, curtains drawn over the windows, his hair flopping sadly over his face, surrounded by shadow, and shadow, and grey, and grey.  Probably rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand, all guilty-like.  Sam is easily one of the most tragic people he has ever met.  Which is saying something, because Stiles used to deal with Derek Hale on a regular basis.  And Derek Hale is, like, _walking tragedy._  Tragedy _personified_.  But Sam Winchester, he’s like--he’s like a fish.  A fish that has been left in a tiny, tiny puddle, and that tiny, tiny puddle has been evaporating in the sun, and the fish has been trying, trying desperately, to stay in the deepest parts of the tiny, tiny puddle, only the deepest parts aren't deep enough anymore, and its little fishy scales are exposed to the open air, to the sun beating down, and it flops and flops and flops as it tries to catch its breath, only it can’t, because there isn't enough water left, but it’s still trying, it’s still _trying_ and it’s such a good fish, such a kind fish, such an awesome fish, only the sun hates it, hates it for no real reason other than the fact that it _exists_ , it still exists despite _everything_ , and the wind also hates it, and even the _puddle_ hates it, because the puddle is abandoning it to go float off as vapor, and the universe in general just ignores it, ignores how hard it tries, and it flops and fights and flops and gasps, its little fishy gills waving frantically in the air, its mouth opening and closing, and--

Stiles takes the phone away from his ear and takes a deep breath.  Blinks.  Blinks some more.  Picks at his comforter.  Looks at the thin grey light leaking through his thin bedroom curtains.  His eyes are wet.  He scrubs at them furiously before returning to the call.

Sam is still quiet.  

“I didn't tell him,” Stiles says.  It feels redundant.

“I know,” Sam replies.  He sounds hollowed out, even over the phone.  Maybe a little sick.  Like he hasn't been eating.  Stiles gets this ridiculous urge to tell him to eat some pizza or something.  Like cold, greasy, shitty pizza would help at all.

“He says he just wants to talk,” Stiles says instead.  Blinks some more.  “Like, wants to make things better, or some shit.”

Sam snorts.  Entirely unenthusiastic.  “Doubt that.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says.  “Just figured I’d let you know--dude wants to see you again.  Probably to make up for whatever horrible, douchey thing he did last time.”

There is another pause.  A different pause.  Stiles listens for a moment, and then straightens.  Alert.  At attention.  Because this is a _tense_ pause.  A _reactionary_ pause.  Something about what Stiles just said put Sam on edge, which cannot be good, definitely cannot be good, because these are archangels and apocalypses they’re talking about.  

“Again,” Sam says flatly.

“Uh,” Stiles scoots to the edge of his mattress.  Thinks about standing, maybe pacing.  There’s shit all over the floor, though--two week’s worth of undone laundry, his streak of keeping his clothes clean ruined pretty much the day he returned to Beacon Hills and remembered how shitty the whole thing had made him feel, and a few plates of forgotten, cold, probably-molding pizza.  It definitely reeks in here, though he can’t really smell it.  He’s probably desensitized.  “Yeah, again.  He wants to see you again.  Because you've met before, right?”

But once again, he just gets silence.  Worried silence.  Confused silence.  Angry silence.  All mixed up into one weird vibe, impossible to parse over a phone line.  Which sets Stiles to wandering.  He rises.  A jerky movement.  Steps over a mound of discarded quilts and sheets.  It’s still too hot at night for too many blankets on the bed, summer lingering as long as it possibly can before giving way to cooler fall nights.  And then he immediately runs into a large pile of books, which is hidden beneath an even larger pile of sweatshirts.  Curses softly.  

Then, finally, Sam speaks: “I have never met Gabriel before.”

Stiles stops, throbbing right foot pulled up to his left knee.  He’s bent awkwardly, balanced precariously, already tipping, and his big toe is red at the tip.  But he doesn't move, doesn't even think, as he lets that sink in.

_Fuck._

“Fuck.”

“What did he look like?” Sam prods, his voice suddenly back to deeply, _enthusiastically_ enraged.  “What did he say?  Tell me everything he did, Stiles.”

“Dude, okay,” Stiles kind of trips back to his bed, perches back on the edge, and studies his bare feet, half hidden in a mound of dirty socks.  “Uh.  He looked normal.”

“They always do,” Sam sounds irritated by it.  Which.  Yeah.  “What else?”

“Uh--uh.  I don’t.  He was kind of short, I think.  I mean, he was sitting down, so it was kind of hard to tell, but he wasn't.  He didn't seem.  Tall.”

There is a hiss of frustrated air from the other end of the line.

“Forget what he looked like,” Sam says, with badly maintained patience.  Which.  This is kind of fucked up, okay?  Gabriel shows up in his car claiming he knows Sam Winchester, and Sam Winchester is saying that he’s never even seen Gabriel, let alone met him, and it’s like.  It’s a lot, okay?  This is a fucking angel they’re talking about.  “What did he do?”

He did a lot of stuff.  Like lift his eyebrows.  And chew on the same piece of licorice for five hundred fucking hours.  And:

“Asshole turned my phone into a vibrator,” Stiles blurts.

This time, a sharp intake of breath.  

Stiles waits, bracing himself.  

“Fuck,” Sam says after a minute, sounding not so much angry as irritated and cranky.  And Stiles can feel that.  Stiles can feel that _so much_ , especially after the first few days of school.  “That son of a bitch.”

“So you do know him?” Stiles questions.  Cautious.  He can guess what happened pretty easily--Sam met the dude, possibly even hunted the dude, and said dude was too much of a dick to identify himself for what he was.  Exactly the sort of shit you’d expect from an angel.  The dickiest of dicks, at least according to Sam.  And Stiles trusts Sam’s judgment.

“Fucking asshole,” Sam says, more to himself than to Stiles, and then: “Is he still around?”

“Yeah,” Stiles scrubs a hand over his hair.  It’s long, now.  Or, longish.  Longer than it was.  Longer than a buzz cut.  He can actually run his fingers through it now, instead of just over it.  It feels weird, and he doesn't know how he didn't notice until now.  But, whatever.  He hasn't been putting too much stock into how he looks.  Not lately.  It hasn't really mattered.  Still doesn't.  Nobody at the school gives a shit about how long his stupid hair is.  “Said he would give me time to _think about it_.”

“And?” Sam asks, sharp.  “If you don’t tell him?”

Stiles shrugs.  “Fuck if I know.  Kept telling me he’d smite me, but then telling me to chill out, that he wasn't gonna do anything.  He was all over the place.”

Another one of those twisty, stormy silences.

Then: “We’re coming out there.”

“Okay,” Stiles says.  Before he can really think about it.  “Wait, what?”

“Dean and Cas and I,” Sam says, firm.  Determined.   _With purpose_.  “We’re gonna come deal with it.”

“But--” Stiles sputters a little.  Stands up again.  Kicks the socks aside, takes a step forward.  Nearly slips on some boxers.  “Look, you've got more important stuff going on, I’m sure--”

“Stiles,” there’s a hint of amusement in Sam’s voice, just barely there beneath the moodiness and the _coming-to-fuck-shit-up_ tone.  “Relax.”

“I don’t want you _not_ paying attention to stuff because of me,” Stiles says.  A little shrill.  Which, he’s allowed.  It’s the fucking Apocalypse.

“Stiles,” Sam says again.  “This is Gabriel we’re talking about.  Archangel.  He might know something.”

“Yeah,” Stiles fondles his own elbow, nervous.  Twitchy.  “But.”

He doesn't finish the thought.  He’s not even sure what the thought _is_ , but he does know that he’s not sure about _this_.  He would not have called at all if he’d known that Sam would decide to drop everything, including any and all Apocalypse-stopping-stuff, to drive probably halfway across the country to protect him from some weirdo archangel who _isn't talking to Heaven right now, shut up_.  He would have left Sam to deal with his shit--well, the _world’s_ shit, but Sam saw it as _his_ shit--and dealt with it himself.  He’s not completely helpless.  He knows he’s not completely helpless.  Jesus Christ, Stiles, way to fuck everything up.  Again.

He falls back onto his mattress.  His back bends awkwardly as he sprawls there, his feet on the floor, his elbow braced, holding his head a few inches off of the comforter.  His neck is going to hurt like a bitch if he holds this position too long.  Which, whatever.  

“I promise,” Sam says slowly after a moment.  Hesitant.  A little uncertain.  “I promise that I won’t go anywhere near your friends.”

“What?” Stiles says.  Stupidly.  His _friends_?  What the fuck--

Oh.

_Oh_.

“Oh,” Stiles says.  “Oh, no.  I wasn't even thinking about that.  I’m not worried about that, dude.  I trust you.”

“Oh.  Okay.”

There’s an awkward pause.

“So I’ll see you in a day or two,” Sam says abruptly.

“Okay.  Okay, fine.”

“Try not to sound so enthusiastic.”

Stiles grimaces a little at the ceiling.  “Whatever, dude.”

“And if that _dick_ shows up again,” Sam’s tone is acidic now.  Stiles is surprised his phone isn't melting into skin-eating goo in his hand.  “If you see him, you tell him I’m coming and that I’m going to kick his ass.”

“Sure,” Stiles says.  “That’ll go over well.”

“And tell him if he hurts you, I’m definitely going to kill him.”

“Love you too, dude,” Stiles sits back up.  His neck does hurt.   _Ugh_.

Sam laughs, loud, barking, abrupt.  It’s not a nice sound, necessarily, but it’s not an ugly sound, either, so.  Progress.  Maybe.  He’s still chuckling when he says, “I’ll see you soon, kid.”

“Yeah,” Stiles can’t help but smile a little.  Just a little, though.  “Yeah, man, see you soon.”

He feels kind of okay when they end the call.  Not great, but not awful.  Okay.  Sam’s coming to Beacon Hills, and there’s an archangel in town, and the Apocalypse has already started, and he hasn't spoken to Scott or any of the others since school started, and they keep staring at him across the cafeteria all wounded-like, but.

Things will be okay.

Things will definitely be okay.

He hopes.

\--

_August, 2009_

_Beacon Hills, California_

“Ellen Harvelle says hello,” Marin says.

She’s behind him.  Had tried to sneak up on him, but he heard the front door open, the tell-tale little creak of wood he’s learned to recognize after years and years of working late nights, of visits from worried pet owners well after dinner time.  He doesn't have to turn to know that she’s leaning in the door frame, arms crossed, vague smirk firmly in place.

“She is well, then?” he asks.  Continues to take his notes on his most recent patient.  The little cat is safely back in her cage.  An overnight guest.  Curled in old and frayed quilts, bits of orange fur barely visible, huddled in the back corner of her tiny space, as far from him as possible.  Naturally.  He’d stuck her with a needle earlier, so he understands.

“As well as can be expected,” Marin moves.  Slips from the door and around the table, into his line in sight.  In theory.  If he looks up from his notes.  Which he doesn't.  “She gave me this.”

She deposits a little jar of dirt on the table in front of him.  Alan glances at it.  Grey.  Unnaturally so.  As if the colors of life--browns and reds and greens and yellows and--and _existence_ had been sucked from it.  It sits, drab and flat and dead-looking, at the edge of his folder.  It seems absent, almost.  In some strange way.

Alan drops his eyes back to his writing.  It’s spiky.  Messier than usual.  It shows his stress where his body will not, cannot.  

He shuts the folder, picks it up.  Turns away from the table and the light and the jar of dirt and his little sister to replace it in his files.

“They believe this is the result of Wormwood,” Marin says.  Obviously irritated.  “You know, Revelation 8:11?  ‘And the name of the star is called Wormwood--’”

“I have read the Bible,” Alan says.  Snaps.  Without meaning to.  Marin falls silent, though it is not a mollified silence.  It is a _satisfied_ silence.  It sets his teeth on edge.

He wants to lift his hand, press his palm to his forehead.  He has a headache, has _had_ a headache for _days_.  

But he does not have to see to know the triumphant smirk on Marin’s face, so he doesn't.  Curls his fingers into fists to resist.

“I take it the negotiations are not going well, then.”

Alan doesn't dignify that with a response.

They aren't.  The negotiations, that is.  He would say they are going the _opposite_ of well, only that would imply that negotiations are happening _at all_.  And they aren't.  They absolutely are _not_.  Derek only shows up to the table half the time, and when he does, Chris doesn't.  The few times Alan has actually had the two of them in the same room, it had degenerated into shouted accusations, snarling, fangs, and guns.  Cursing.  Promises of future violence.  Alan does what he can--keeps it as _civil_ as he can--but they dismiss him, his words, his reason, his common sense, in favor of their paranoia, their anger.  It is more than an uphill battle.  It is a losing battle, futile, disheartening.  Hopeless.

There is too much guilt on both sides for any of this to work.  Alan doesn't know why he bothers, some days.

(Except for the days he does remember.  For all that he’s disgusted by the behavior of the fools surrounding him, he imagines Talia must be rolling in her grave.  Furious.  Disappointed.  It is this thought more than anything else that spurs him into further action.  He has a responsibility to her, if not to Argent, to Derek, to this meaningless town.  He will make minimal effort, in her memory.)

“Alan,” Marin says.  Less smug.

“Did they say where it came down?” Alan turns back to the table, zeroes in on the jar of dirt.  Anything but looking his little sister in the eye.  He picks it up, holds it to the light.  It looks dead even there, devoid of color, flat.  As close to nothingness as he has ever seen in his life, in his experience.  His _vast_ experience.

“Northern Virginia,” Marin says.  “Only one town is affected.”

Alan hums.  Squints.  Leans closer to the warped glass of the jar.  “For now,” he says.

Marin doesn't react to this statement.  Says: “They have feet on the ground, but they want you to take a closer look, obviously.  See if there’s anything in it we can identify.  Combat.”

He looks up at her.  Finally.  He has run out of excuses and will look like an utter fool, a childish fool, if he continues to ignore her as he is.

“I will do what I can,” he says.  

Marin’s expression softens a little.  Or, as much as it ever does.  And Alan understands--she does not care for Beacon Hills.  Not as he does.  They did not grow up here, and she has not lived here as he has.  She has no ties to Derek Hale, nor to the bodies rotting beneath the earth nearby, many of them gone too soon.  And when the whispers had started, rumors that had spread and spread and spread from Sioux Falls, Marin had not been pleased by his--

His _local_ vision.

“Good,” she says now.  “Good.”

“And you?” Alan sets the jar on the table between them.  Spreads his hands on either side of it.  Marin’s hands are also resting on the table--he has an urge, a ridiculous urge, to reach out to her.  But they have never been a family for physical affection, not even when their parents were still alive, and he lets the moment pass, fleeting, soon to be forgotten.  She smiles at him, sharp, but as if she knows, she knows what he considered, however briefly, and acknowledges it.  Respects it.  “What will you do?”

“Like you said,” she breathes after a moment of suspended eye contact, still smiling that odd little smile.  “What I can.”

\--

_September, 2009_

_Beacon Hills, California_

The guy--the _werewolf_ \--is pretty blatantly the worst.

And Gabriel, well.  Gabriel considers turning him into a kitten.  With big eyes.  And absurdly fuzzy ears.  And a tiny, _tiny_ pink nose.  Sweet.  Adorable.  Irresistible.  A transformation that utterly contradicts what he sees in the guy’s soul, just for shits and giggles.  Because, who gives a shit, right?  The world’s ending, and this dude is most certainly going to hell, and it’s been a while since Gabriel has had any _real_ fun.  And it’s not hurting anyone.  Not even the guy.  So.  Whatever.

“I’m curious,” the guy says.   _Peter_ , but Gabriel’s definitely not going to dignify such a slippery asshole with a name.

(And, listen.  He realizes the hypocrisy in some of his assessment.  He sees it.  He’s been a dick, and he knows it, because what the hell do you think he’s doing here?  In this shitty little California town, chasing some teenage boy who means absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things?  Truth: he’s hoping, maybe, for a redemption story.  It would be nice.  To get one.  Maybe.)

(He’s going for honesty.  He thinks that’s important.  To redemption.  And stuff.)

( _Are you hearing this, Dad?_ )

“Curious about what?” Gabriel asks.  Injects as much douchiness as he possibly can into the question.  Smirks at the werewolf around his jaw breaker.  He knows he looks ridiculous, with his cheek puffed out like this, his chin resting on both his palms.  Peter looks at him as such.  Down his nose.  Like he’s the scum on the bottom of his shoe.

Well, maybe not.  There’s gotta be some pretty fucked up scum on the bottom of this particular guy’s shoes.

They’re in a McDonald's.  Gabriel is sitting in the booth in the furthest corner from the front counter.  Isolated.  A choice designed to divert attention away from himself.  For once.  All that remains of his meal--burger, fries, milkshake--is trash, strewn across the table top.  Lazily.  He spilled ketchup near the napkin dispenser.  He probably won’t clean it up, if he’s being honest.

_But_ , he did pay for the meal.  Baby steps.

Peter cocks his head.  He has a totally creepy, totally inappropriate hungry look in his eyes.  And he’s looming over Gabriel’s little booth like he’s been invited.  Which, rude.

“What you are,” he says.

Gabriel almost rolls his eyes.   _Almost_.

“Listen up, dude,” he says.  “Seriously.  Open your ears.”

He pauses, to give Peter time to do what he asked.  The werewolf continues to stare at him.  Naked fascination on his face.  

“I’m listening,” he murmurs.   _Creepily_.

“Okay,” Gabriel says.  “You’re so far out of your league right now.  So far.  Like, you have no idea.”

Peter smirks.  Lifts an eyebrow.  Gabriel, in a rush of protectiveness that is as unexpected as it is absurd, given that he’s only met the boy once, nevertheless finds himself hoping that Stiles Stilinski does _not_ spend _any_ time with this guy.  Like, any.  Like, if he had it his way, Stiles would be moved to the other side of the planet, and Peter would stay right here.  Buried alive.  Where he couldn't look at anyone in that creepy way ever again.

“I doubt that,” he replies.  Smooth.  Sketchy as all hell.  And Gabriel is already so beyond done with this shit.  He doesn't even have the words.

So: “I’m sure you do, creepy werewolf man.”  Because fuck it.

He’s rewarded.  For the first time, Peter’s stupid, perpetually smug expression flickers.  He hitches it back into place almost immediately, but, as Gabriel already told him--dude’s way out of his depth.  Gabriel has been alive for, like, ever. _Almost_ all of time.  Or, time as far as _time’s_ concerned, anyway.  Whatever.  The point is, he knows how to pick up on moments of weakness.  Comes with the territory of being alive for eons upon eons upon eons.

To the guy’s credit, he doesn't say what most would say.   _Oh, my God, you know I’m a werewolf?!?  How?!?_  No, this guy, he keeps his shit together.  Continues to smirk.  Says, “And you.  You came from the tree,” like it makes perfect sense.  

It doesn't.

But Gabriel--well, like he said.  He’s been around the block a few times.  So instead of letting his momentary confusion--rare though it is--show on his face, he just lifts his own eyebrow.  Leans back against the red plastic of his bench seat, ignoring its groan of protest.  And again smirks around his jaw breaker.

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

Peter seems to take it as confirmation.  Of the tree thing.  Which, whatever.  Let him think what he wants to think.  This town is, like, as meaningless as it can possibly get.  Heaven doesn't give a shit about it.  Hell doesn't give a shit about it.  It’s just here, and these people are just here, and the only reason Gabriel is here is the kid, because the kid was stupid enough to hang out with Sam Winchester for more than four seconds.

Point is, he’s gonna be gone, like, ASAP.

And, speak of the Devil.

Stiles, finally, shows up.  Enters through a side door with a flurry of limbs and a swinging book bag.  Looking tired.  And irritated.  He hasn't caught sight of either of them yet.  Peter looks around, a vicious smirk sliding onto his face, and Gabriel is again tempted to turn him into a kitten.  For shits and giggles.

The kid, gnawing on one of the hanging straps from his bag, catches sight of them through the twisted branches of a plastic potted plant.  His eyes go comically wide.  Gabriel’s honestly surprised they don’t just pop out of his head and roll away.  The strap falls out of his mouth.

He nearly trips in his effort to get to them.  Despite the early-ish hour, the dining room is deserted--only the little shit behind the counter, looking bored and fiddling with the ice cream machine in a way Gabriel is entirely sure his manager would not approve of, is present.  Which, Gabriel doesn't care either way.  Who cares if there are witnesses?  Shit’s about to go to Hell, literally, anyway.

“Dude,” Stiles hisses, reaching the booth.  “What the hell are you doing?”

He is clearly talking to Peter.  Gabriel settles in to watch.

“Stiles,” Peter tuts.  Condescending and gross.  “That is no way to speak to your elders.”

“My _creepy as fuck_ elders?” Stiles snaps.  “ _Leave_ , seriously, what is your problem?”

The werewolf rolls his eyes.

“Dude,” Gabriel says.  He’s so fucking done with this.  And Stiles flinches and gets a little pale, and it’s kind of funny.  Kind of.  “You’re obviously making the kid uncomfortable.”

Peter’s gaze drifts to him.  Sharper, now.  Harder.  And maybe Gabriel would be concerned, you know, if he wasn't the _Messenger of God._

“This is none of your concern,” is the response he gets.  An undercurrent of nastiness in the tone.  Gabriel shifts a little in his seat.  Sits a little straighter.  Stiles is _audibly_ praying to be anywhere but here.

“I think it is,” he says quietly.

“God, _please_ ,” Stiles whispers out loud.

Peter is coiled.  Ready to spring.  And Gabriel’s thoughts are drifting away from fluffy kitties towards darker things, violent things, things that could cause pain and anguish and begging and pleading and--

A phone goes off.  

Stiles’ _fucking phone goes off_.

“Oh,” the kid says, scrabbling in his pockets to pull it out.  “Oh, _thank fuck_.”

The tension breaks.  Peter smirks again, jutting a hip out to lean against the table, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.  And Gabriel rolls his eyes.  Settles back against the red plastic.  Crosses his arms.

And waits.


	4. is still burned in the back of your mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are awesome. Thank you for the kudos!
> 
> The title of this chapter came from Back to December by Taylor Swift.
> 
> There is a Star Wars reference in there, also. It’s pretty blatant. I don't own.
> 
> Scott is difficult for me to capture. He is a bizarre mixture of selfish teen and selfless hero (which, they all are, but Scott takes it to extremes), and he also has that goofy quality, but. I don’t know. Most of my lingering issues with this chapter are with him. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Also, though it may not sound like it in this chapter, I love Scott and Stiles’ relationship. I love that they’re brothers and totally love each other. But I also think a lot of things go unresolved between them on the show, and I want to explore that.
> 
> Also-also, the Sam-Cas dynamic is my life, my heart, my soul. I love everything about it. But, again, I struggle in capturing Cas. So let me know how I did! :)

_August, 2009_

_Beacon Hills, California_

_he’s back._

This is what the text from Isaac reads, received two hours earlier and ignored in favor of his not-date with Allison.  Which, Scott is aware of how bad that is, is aware that this was part of what drove Stiles out of town in the first place.  He recognizes that he was a shitty friend at the end of the last school year, wrapped up as he was in his own life, his own relationships, and he recognizes that he made some mistakes.  And he is _trying_ to be better, he is trying so _hard_ with Isaac, with Erica, with Boyd, even with Derek.  He would have tried with Stiles, too, only his best friend had left town before he’d gotten the chance.  It stings less now, and he has had time to come to terms with it, to work his way through the decision to the point of understanding, but.  He does wish Stiles had given him a chance.  Just one chance, before he up and left without a word.

It’s late when he finally gets the message, the shadows of evening gathering rapidly around him, but that doesn't stop him from peeling out of Allison’s driveway and breaking about a hundred speed limits on his way across town.  Beacon Hills is not terribly large, but it’s big enough that it should take him a quarter of an hour to get from Allison’s to Stiles’, but it’s only five minutes later that he pulls up outside of Stiles’ house.  And sure enough, there’s the jeep in the driveway, a bit dusty, but safe, and whole, and familiar, and such a _relief_.  Scott cannot help but smile when he sees it.

The sheriff’s car is absent.  Scott is not certain if this is a good thing or not.  If John had been there to answer the door, he would have at least been guaranteed a minute of Stiles’ time.  But if Stiles looks out the window--has _already_ looked out the window, really--and decides he’s not ready to give Scott the time of day, well.  He’s not going to force his presence on anyone, not even his best friend, not when he’s so clearly not wanted.

He leaves his bike at the curb, balanced precariously, and picks his way across the front lawn slowly, eyeing the window he knows is Stiles’, lit up, probably by the twisty lamp perched on the edge of his desk.  He can’t see any movement from inside the room, let alone Stiles’ head peeking out, watching him through narrow, angry eyes, but then, for all that Stiles is one of the loudest people Scott has ever met, he can go unnoticed when he needs to.  Can be invisible when he wants to.  Scott could listen in on his heartbeat--because surely, _surely_ it would be beating a little too fast, confronted with his best friend for the first time in months.  But that.  That feels like a violation of trust, and Scott is here to mend bridges, not burn them.

He stands on the front porch in the rising night, utterly still, for moments too long before he rings the doorbell, his free hand curled into a fist at his side.  Distantly, from the area of Stiles’ bedroom, he hears a thud, followed by the rapid footsteps of someone rushing to answer a door.  The thunder of feet on stairs, some mild cursing, and then the wood swings away, open, to reveal--

He looks tired.  Tired, but also rested, in a bizarre way.  A good kind of tired.  Like he’d done something worthwhile with his summer, something that had helped him deal with what had happened in the spring.  There is a hint of shadows beneath his eyes, but it is nothing compared to the deep, dark circles that had lingered there after Scott had been bitten, after Peter, after Jackson, after Gerard.  It is a different look on him after so many months of fear.  It is a good look.

He even smells a little different--lighter, but somehow darker as well.  But still, beneath it all, he is--

Stiles.

Stiles.

Scott wants to hug him.

_Stiles._

“Uh,” he says instead, as Stiles blinks once, twice--clearly surprised, his expression caught somewhere between irritated and confused--so he  _hadn't_  looked out the window before he came downstairs.  “Hi.”

“Scott,” Stiles says.  Voice bland--either he hasn't had enough time to decide how to feel about Scott’s sudden appearance yet, or has and is shutting himself down as a result.  Scott hopes it’s the first.  He _prays_ it’s the first.  Because if it’s the second, he knows, the door will be slamming in his face any second now.  Shutting him out.  Again.

“Yeah,” Scott says quickly, before Stiles can make any kind of decision.  “I heard you were back.  So I thought I’d drop by.”

Stiles stares at him, blank.  The moment stretches to agonizing length.

“Right,” he finally says.  His eyes dart away, settling on some random point over Scott’s left shoulder.  Not good.   _But_ , he doesn't shut the door.  Doesn't tell him to fuck off.  So that’s something.

“I just wanted to see how you’re doing,” Scott says, hurried again.  

A weird smile crosses Stiles’ face--bitter, but also happy, a clear oxymoron--but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.  “I’m fine,” he says, still staring steadily over Scott’s shoulder.  “How are you?”

He asks the question, but it doesn't sound like he gives a crap about the answer.  He asks it because he’s expected to, because it’s what people do--even if they’re strangers, or casual acquaintances.  It’s obvious.  And it tells him nothing about how Stiles is feeling about him.  About _them_.  Which, Scott knows--dude is his best friend, after all--is intentional.  Stiles has all the power here, and he knows it, and he fully intends to keep it that way.

“I’m good,” he says.  And then, gambling: “I mostly worked this summer.  With Deaton.”

Stiles’ eyes dart back to his.  Sharp.  Assessing.  But also bright, almost impressed.  

“I went on a road trip,” he replies.

“A road trip?”  

And there’s another stab of hurt, another disappointment.  How many times--before Allison, after Allison--before werewolves, after werewolves--had the two of them talked about driving cross country _together?_  How many times had they sat in Scott’s room, or Stiles’, and made list upon list upon list of what they wanted to see--the Four Corners, Mount Rushmore, the Largest Ball of Yarn, the Largest Shoe, the Largest Bowl of Cereal.  Planned entire routes.  Picked out gas stations and motels.  Made note of famous, or infamous, restaurants or diners to try out along the way.

They’d had it all planned out.  The summer after they graduate, they’re going to--

But Stiles went on a road trip by himself this summer, and he went without Scott.

“Yeah,” Stiles says.  A little quietly.  He’s looking over Scott’s shoulder again.  His jaw is hard.

“How--” Scott swallows it all back, the _How could yous?_ and the _What the hell, mans?_  The betrayal.  The simmering, rising anger.  He says, “How was it?” and it sounds almost like he wants to know.

(He does, but he also doesn't.  He’s angry, but he also understands.  Nothing has ever been simple or straightforward with Stiles.)

And Stiles hesitates.  He hesitates, and Scott can’t help himself.

The heartbeat--usually a little too quick, a product of Stiles’ natural speed in life--skips once, twice in his chest.  His fingers twitch almost absently at his sides.  His eyes are still pointed not-quite-at-Scott, but seem even further away in the wake of the question.  The expression on Stiles’ face then is the very definition of _lost in thought._

“It was,” he says haltingly, finally.  

“Was?”

“Yeah,” Stiles swallows, and it’s loud, and Scott probably would have heard it even without the werewolf hearing.  “It just _was_ , dude.”

“Oh.”

Scott isn't mad at the non-answer.  He’d been expecting it, been ready for it, and he’s just realized that he’s been standing out on Stiles’ front porch for maybe five minutes, and Stiles has been standing in the door frame, blocking access to the inside of the house, and hasn't invited him in, hasn't even hinted at it, and he’d been wondering how Stiles felt about him and about their friendship after a summer apart, and that’s his answer, isn't it?  He’s been standing on the porch and Stiles--Stiles hasn't asked him to come inside.

His best friend--because Stiles still is his _best friend_ and Scott isn't going to let it go this easily, he isn't, he’s been thinking all summer of how to fix things between them and he’s going to do it, he’s going to win Stiles back--shifts a little, eyes dropping to the ground between them.  He lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck--a gesture somehow both familiar and new.  It isn't the first time Scott has seen Stiles do this, but it seems more grown up, somehow.  More evolved, or developed, or as if it is conveying a different kind of emotion.  An emotion Scott doesn't recognize, not from his friend.

“Look,” he starts to say.

“I get it,” Scott says firmly.

Stiles’ eyes snap to him again.  This time openly surprised.

“Get what?”

“That I screwed up,” Scott says.  “That you needed me and I wasn't there for you the way I should have been.  I get it.”

Stiles blinks.  Blinks again.  Opens his mouth.  Closes it.

“And I’m going to be better.  I _have_ been better,” he can’t help but add before Stiles can find his words.  It’s been a while since Scott has seen him at a loss for them, which might speak to how much each of them has changed since the end of the last school year--since before, since the night they went looking for a dead body in the woods.  But he’s not sure.  He honestly doesn't know.  Which probably says more than anything else.

“Oh,” Stiles says.  “Okay, but, look, Scott, I--”  He breaks off.  Bites his lip.  Still doesn't completely meet Scott’s eyes.

“I know,” Scott says.  He does know.  He gets it.  He finally gets it.

He can’t tell how much Stiles has changed since everything started because they haven’t spent enough time together.  He hasn't spent enough time with Stiles.  And so he doesn't know.  He doesn't know if he knows his best friend anymore.

“Okay,” Stiles says again.  Quietly.  “Thanks.”

“No problem.”  Scott considers slapping him on the shoulder--gently, of course--but his arm feels too heavy, and he can’t bring himself to lift it from his side, and that is probably a good indication that it’s a bad idea, at least at this point.  “So, I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”

Stiles looks at him.  Finally.  Stares at him.  For a long time.

“Yeah,” he says finally.  “Yeah, I’ll see you at school.”

\--

_September, 2009_

_100 miles west of Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

They stop in a diner because Bobby, who had been driving, needs to take a leak.

Dean is pissed.  Pissed about the Trickster being Gabriel, pissed about Sam hanging out with a sixteen-year-old boy without thinking about consequences.  He’s pissed, and emoting everywhere, and sits at the bar flirting with the blonde waitress rather than joining Sam and Cas in the booth while they wait for Bobby to do his business.  

Which, fine.

Sam doesn't want to deal with Dean right now either.

The downside to this is that Cas starts paying exclusive attention to him again, which, Sam has learned since his return, is _not good_.  It usually comes with things.  Bad things.  Awkward things.  Emotions.  On Sam’s side.  That blue stare can make him feel a thousand different ways, and most of them come back to guilt, and self disgust, and he knows Cas doesn't mean it, knows Cas is trying to be supportive, but.  It’s difficult.  Sam can barely meet his eyes.

And today, the attention comes with an _earnest look_.  Which is a special kind of torture, really.  Sam fears what would happen if Satan took a page out of his little brother’s book.  Horrific things, probably.

“Tell me more about this boy, Sam,” the angel says, serious, determined.

Sam shrugs.  Uncomfortable.  He’s not sure what kind of answer Cas is looking for or expecting.  “He’s just a kid,” he says.  “A good kid.  A great kid.  But just a kid.”

Cas continues to stare at him, blue eyes unnaturally large.  Looking right through his skin and examining his twisted, blackened soul.  “And what of this town?” he asks eventually.  His hands are folded on the table, as if in prayer.  Sam stares at them, loose and pale, rather than at the angel himself.

“Stiles didn't tell me much about it,” he says.  

Cas is quiet for a long moment.

Then he says, “Sam, please don’t lie to me.”

Sam wants to dissolve into nothingness.  Wants to sink into the green plastic of the booth and just disappear.  He stares at Cas’ hands, exuding patience, and at the table beneath them, faux wood with grains that flow and stop and flow and stop.  He swallows.

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, I just--”

“I wish for an end of the discord between you and your brother,” Cas murmurs.  So sincere that it’s fucking painful to listen to.  And for a moment, he wants to open his mouth and start talking and talking and talking until every single impossible weight on his shoulders is split with Cas, a burden shared.  It’s obvious the guy is offering.  Could there really be any harm in--

But then Sam thinks of Stiles’ hesitation.  Thinks of the way he’d said, _I wasn't even thinking about that_ , but only after a second.  Thinks of how thoroughly fucked up everything is, and how badly he’s screwed Stiles over by pretending it was okay to be his friend, even just for a little while.

Thinks of how genuinely frightened the kid had been, when Sam had finally found out the truth about the friends he’d left behind.  If only for a second.  How absolutely certain he’d been that Sam, retired, exhausted, _removed_ Sam, would pick up and drive halfway across the country and--

“I’m sorry, Cas,” he whispers.  “I’m so sorry.  I can’t.  I just can’t.”

And he can _feel_ Cas staring at him, quiet and sad and disappointed.  He used to think, when he was young, that his father’s disappointment was the worst thing in the world.  He was wrong.  He’d been so _wrong_.

“Okay, Sam,” the angel replies after a moment, slow, steady.  “Okay.”

\--

_September, 2009_

_Beacon Hills, California_

“Scott,” Stiles says faintly into the phone.  Badly hiding his distress.

“Are you okay?” Scott snaps immediately.  He’s already in _don’t fuck with my friends_ mode, Stiles can hear it even over the shitty connection.  And he’s based just on the strangled sound of Stiles’ voice.  And Peter and Gabriel are staring at him, and the lights of the McDonald’s are too bright and too fluorescent, and Stiles finds himself wishing, for what must be the one millionth time in the past seven months, that he could just dissolve into the floor.

“Yeah,” Stiles says.  “Yeah, dude, I’m fine.  What’s up?”

Peter lifts his eyebrow at the forced levity.  Gabriel actually rolls his eyes, tugging a fucking lollipop out of his jacket and unwrapping it with his thumb and pointer finger.  Fucking daintily.  And that’s just weird, because archangels aren't supposed to be fucking dainty.  Like, no.

“You sound weird,” Scott accuses after a second’s pause.  Peter starts to smirk.  Stiles wants dearly to punch him in the fucking face.  Would, if he didn't think he’d get his arm ripped off, or else accidentally smote along with all of Peter’s gross self.

“I’m _fine_ , dude,” Stiles says.  Almost snaps.  Almost.  “Why did you call me?”

Scott is quiet for a moment too long.  Stiles squirms and Peter chuckles in that creepy way of his and Gabriel sticks the now-unwrapped lollipop in his mouth, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.  Which, _rude_.  Not to mention _inappropriate_.  Stiles is sixteen.  And Gabriel is, like, a billion years old.  

Just, _no_.

“I just,” Scott finally says.  Wistful and wounded and oh so very sad.  “I was hoping maybe we could hang out today?”

Stiles stares at Gabriel.  Gabriel waves one hand as if to say _get on with it, will you?_

“I--” he says.  It’s all he can get out.

But, like, he’s standing in a fucking McDonald’s with a psycho undead werewolf and a fucking archangel and they’re about to, like, fight to the death or something, and now his best friend, his best friend with whom he hasn't spent any real time with in over four months, is calling him and asking to hang out in that stupid kicked puppy tone that he’d perfected at the age of ten and, _fuck_.

He’s _stressed_ , okay?

“I mean,” Scott says quickly, “if you have time.  If you’re too busy, we could try for another day.”

“No,” Stiles says.  Loudly.  “No, I’m not too busy.”

Peter and Gabriel snort at the same time, and then exchange a look that would have melted solid rock.  Peter bares his fangs a little.  Gabriel rests his chin on one hand and starts drumming his fingers on the table with the other.  While staring Peter down.  Challenging him.  

“Really?” Scott sounds delighted, and surprised, and genuinely excited, and Stiles loves him for it, loves him to death, but would love him even more if he weren't so terrified of the possibility of two horrific mythical beings going at it right in front of him.  In public.  

Like, his dad is understanding, but he’s not _that_ understanding, okay?

“Yeah, man,” Stiles says.  His voice is weirdly level.  He’s impressed with himself.  “Could you give me an hour, though?  Got some errands to run.”

“Yeah,” Scott says eagerly.  “Yeah, for sure.  Where did you want to meet?”

Stiles shrugs a little.  “The lacrosse field,” he suggests aimlessly.  Pulling shit out of his ass, that’s what he’s good at.  “We could practice, or whatever.”

“Okay, dude.  That sounds great.  So I’ll see you in an hour?”

“You will definitely see me in an hour.”

Stiles looks very intentionally between Peter and Gabriel as he says it.  Driving the point home.  

“Cool,” Scott says.  A little breathlessly.  “Okay.  See you then.”

“Cool,” Stiles echoes, and ends the call.

Peter is still staring at Gabriel.  Gabriel, apparently bored with the developing Mexican standoff, has turned his attention back to Stiles.

“Nice,” he says.  “Really.  Awesome play, kid.”

Peter rolls his eyes.  “Please.  I have no intention of harming Stiles,” he shoots Stiles a toothy grin, “ _yet_.”

“Because that’s so reassuring,” Stiles snaps back, shoving his phone back into his pocket and crossing his arms.  “So, how is this gonna go?  Because, you heard that.  I have to meet Scott in an hour.”

Peter adopts exactly the kind of perpetually condescending expression that makes Stiles want to punch him in the face.  Always.  All the time.  If he could spend the rest of his life punching Peter in the face, even if it was only for a few days, even a few hours, he would.  Peter is exactly that much of a douche.

“This has nothing to do with you, Stiles,” he says.

Gabriel snorts.

“That’s what you think, bro.”

Peter lifts an eyebrow.   _Haughtily_.  Which, rude.  He doesn't know Stiles’ life.  He doesn't know how cool and awesome and important Stiles has become.  Or, how cool and awesome and important Stiles’ new friends are, which makes him cool and awesome and important by association.  Whatever, the point is, an archangel wants to talk to him, and doesn't want to talk to Peter, so fuck Peter, because that makes Stiles exponentially more _#hella_.

“You want to talk to Stiles,” Peter says flatly.  “You.”

Gabriel smirks a little.  “Wouldn't have bothered coming to this piece of shit town otherwise.”

There is an awkward pause.  The werewolf seems almost insulted, which, that’s just so fucking typical.  Peter needs to check his ego, like, yesterday.

“Yeah,” he says, a little defensively.  “Dude wants to talk to me, not you.  So,”  he offers a little dismissive wave, well aware that it’s probably a life risking maneuver, but entirely unable to help himself, “get lost.”

Peter’s smile is a sharp thing.  A creepy thing.  He suddenly seems to be looming, and Stiles--

Stiles definitely appeals to Gabriel for some help.  He has no shame about it.  Just a little help.  He didn't _have_ to call Sam, after all.  Dude owes him.

And he doesn't disappoint.

Turns out, the archangel is kind of short.  Like, the his-eyes-are-level-with-Stiles’-chin kind of short.  Which, Stiles feels kind of gratified by that.  He’d guessed right.

When he stands, it’s suddenly.  Sitting one moment, all up in Peter’s face the next.  Fingers wrapped around the stick still hanging out of his mouth.

“Gonna give you five seconds,” he says, his voice muffled around the lollipop.  “Five seconds to turn around and take your furry ass out of here.  Ready?  I’m gonna start counting.”

Peter just lifts an eyebrow.   _Again_.

Dude needs to develop some better moves.  A little variety never hurt anyone.  All this sameness is kind of irritating, honestly.  And uber douchey.  If Stiles was the archangel in this scenario, he’d totally smite Peter on principle.  

But Gabriel only grins around his lollipop.  His teeth are a little red.  Shit must be cherry-flavored.

“One,” he says, lifting a single finger off of the stick.  “And two.  And a-three.  Four.”

Peter doesn't move.  Keeps smirking like a total asshole.  Condescending.  Stiles wants him dead.  

Again.

Gabriel pauses.  His thumb has pinned the stick to his palm, his four fingers held up in front of his nose.  For a moment, his expression is amused, almost pleasantly surprised.  Stiles wonders if he should be worried that an archangel is about to start fucking shit up in the middle of a McDonald’s in Beacon Hills, but then decides he doesn't care.  Peter definitely deserves it.  And maybe, in addition to his smiting-skills and his turning-phones-into-vibrator skills, Gabriel also has these-are-not-the-droids-you’re-looking-for skills.

The werewolf and the archangel stare at each other for several long seconds.  Stiles fidgets, and fidgets, and checks his watch.

Fifty-one minutes left.  He frowns.  They don’t have all afternoon to stand around and stare at each other, Jesus.

Naturally, it is as that last thought enters his head that the change comes.

Stiles freezes, his eyes trapped between his watch and Gabriel, stuck on the stupid table in the booth.  There’s a smudge of mustard in the far left corner, but that’s not what’s important.  What’s important is that every single hair on Stiles’ body, including the _intimate_ hairs, is standing on end.

It is as if the room has filled suddenly with electricity, or extra air, or some kind of horrible invisible fire.  His skin feels simultaneous too fucking tight and ready to slide off of his bones and pool at his skeletal feet.  Stiles thinks, suddenly, of what Gabriel had told him in his jeep only a couple of days ago-- _pure spirit, I guess, in human terms.  Light.  Wind.  Chaos.  A little bit beyond your human imagination, no offense._

He swallows.  Forces his eyes up from the table and towards the general vicinity of Gabriel.  

The Messenger of God.

Peter doesn't just look shocked.  There is naked, _butt-ass naked_ fear written in every line of his face.  And it’s a fucking tragedy, but Stiles is too paralyzed himself to fully appreciate the sight of it.

“I’m feeling pretty lenient right now,” Gabriel says.  He pulls his lollipop out of his mouth, exaggerating the _pop_ of his lips.  “So, like, turn around and run right now, and maybe I won’t fuck you up.  Maybe.”

But Peter just stares at him, his eyes fucking huge in his face.

“Dude,” Gabriel says.  “It’s gettin’ real tempting right now.  Just fucking _leave_ , seriously.”

No response.  The werewolf doesn't even move.  Stiles jerks back into motion mostly because he’s so massively disgusted by Peter’s reaction.  Note to self: to determine cowards, introduce to archangels.  That’s how to know.

“Peter, oh, my God,” he snaps, irritated.  Gabriel smirks.  “Get your shit together.  You’re embarrassing yourself.”

This, apparently, is what it takes.

Peter finally snaps out of it--out of his shock, out of his pants-pissing terror.  His eyes flick between Stiles and Gabriel and then back to Stiles.  Where they narrow, angry and humiliated, but mostly angry.  He takes a step back, his fingers twitching at his sides.  His claws are out, for all the help they’ll be.

“I don’t know who this is, Stiles,” he says through his teeth--fangs, really.  “But I do know that you’re hiding something.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Like you’re _not_ hiding something, Creeper McCreeperson?”

Peter snarls a little.  Gabriel, sticking his lollipop back into his mouth, chuckles a little.

“Come now, Stiles,” he says.  “You must know--those in glass houses are often the first to cast the stones.”

Peter’s expression becomes a thing of beauty.  He starts to bare his teeth at Gabriel, and then remembers halfway through how badly the archangel had fucked him up.  The result is a caricature of a smile, vaguely constipated and a little lost.

“Okay,” Gabriel says, turning his back entirely on Peter, dismissive and _thoroughly_ awesome.  “Let’s go, Stiles.  This dude obviously isn't gonna do what we say.”

“Fine,” Stiles agrees, glancing at the counter.  With a little longing.  But, like, the last thing he needs before a lacrosse workout with the ultimate teen wolf is fast food.  Also, the poor cashier looks ready to shit himself.  “I gotta go anyway.”

“Yeah.  Wouldn't want to be late for your date,” Gabriel says, and smirks when Stiles scowls at him.  They leave Peter standing beside the sad little booth, his claws dug into his own palms.  Little puddles of red are forming on either side of his feet.  The rage in his eyes is a living, breathing thing, but he makes no effort to follow them.

Stiles can’t help but grin brightly through the window as the door swings shut behind them.

Gabriel trails him to the jeep and gets into the passenger seat like he’s been invited.  Stiles doesn't bother setting him straight--isn't sure how you’d go about setting an archangel straight, especially not after that display he’d put on for Peter.  He just rolls his eyes and accepts it, pulls out of his parking space and onto the road.

It is not until they are three miles away from the McDonald’s, six miles from the school, that Gabriel speaks.

“Hear from Sammy?”

“Pretty sure he hates that nickname.”

“Lets his brother call him that.”

Stiles grips the steering wheel a little harder.  “Yeah,” he says slowly.  “But that’s his brother, isn't it?”

Gabriel chuckles.  “Fair,” he concedes.  

Stiles stares out the windshield for a moment.  Drums his fingers on the wheel.  Taps his left foot on the floor.  Gabriel, for his part, shows remarkable patience.  Doesn't start making threats or demands.  Doesn't start complaining.  Doesn't even say a word--just fucking sits there, unwrapping a new lollipop--this time a green one--and dropping it on his red tongue.

It kind of fucks Stiles up a little, honestly.

Finally:

“Yeah, I talked to Sam,” he says stiffly.

Gabriel side-eyes him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Gabriel pulls the green lollipop back out of his mouth.  Studies it with unnecessary intensity.  It’s just a lollipop, for fuck’s sake.

“And?” he asks blandly.

Stiles lets out a breath.  Harsh.  Unsteady.  He feels like such an asshole.  And an idiot.  He’s definitely a fucking idiot.

“You don’t have to go to him,” he admits.  “He’s coming to you.”

Gabriel nods once, his eyes still glued to the lollipop.  And he smiles.


	5. knows everybody's disapproval

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Take Me to Church by Hozier.
> 
> Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry for the wait! I did NaNoWriMo, and I got sucked into it for a while. This is kind of short, and also kind of a filler, but I’m getting back into the groove of this story. I won't pretend I didn't struggle with it, because I did, a lot. But the next chapter will be longer and have more stuff, I promise!
> 
> Also, in addition to my writer's block, I had so much trouble proof reading this. I couldn't focus. Couldn't keep my head on straight. Let me know if you see any egregious errors. And thank you!
> 
> Also-also, full disclosure: I have never actually been to South Boston, Virginia. I have driven through it, but I never got the chance to stop there. So. I’m a bit vague in describing it. I don’t want to misrepresent it.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! :)

_Late August, 2009_

_10 miles outside of South Boston, Virginia_

****  


The heat is sharp, demanding she strip herself of her jacket, her cardigan, her very skin.  It sits on her chest and presses down, and down, and down, relentless and thoughtless and unkind.  There is a hellish bite to it, she thinks, and its oppressive wants.  A hint of sulfur, a taste to the air that rests, acidic, on the back of her tongue.  There and real and just this side of _violent_.

Or, perhaps, it’s finally starting to get to her.  

Though, she doubts it.

Marin ignores the weather, and she ignores Garth, fidgeting at her side.  She stands at the very edge of the grey earth.  Winston, his face pallid, his eyes glassy, is pacing on the other side of the line--the line that is definitive in the grass, the dirt, even the sky.  She watches him carefully--he has been here for two weeks now, and he has been walking across the dead land with little or no regard for his own safety too often during this time.  But, of course, this is not surprising.   _Hunter_ is just a nicer word for _suicidal mass murderer_ , after all.  

They all know it.

And it--the Wormwood star, fallen in a blaze of cruel glory, accosting and defiling the land--  

It’s _definitely_ starting to get to _him_.

The landscape stretches out behind him.  The grey has a solid boundary--Marin sees it as clearly at a distance of about two miles as she does at her own feet.  It is a circle, and at its center, slightly darker, is the crater--perfectly round, nothing more than a pock mark on the rolling hills around them.  Or, it would be, were it not for the toxic object at its heart.  

And, somewhat absurdly, outside of the dead land, summer still has a full grip on the world.  The trees and grass are a vivid green, and the hills they are standing on are wreathed with yellow and red wildflowers.  It is the sort of scene one might expect to find on a Hallmark card, Marin thinks, or on the kind of soothing poster or artwork that might hang in the office of a doctor or dentist.

It is an out-of-place location for the star of death.

“Has anyone,” Marin starts, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the noon sun, “actually been to the crater yet?”

On this side of the definitive grey line, the safe side, the kind side, it is bright, and the sky is blue.  The world is still turning.  But she doubts it appears that way on Winston’s side of the line.  She can see it, even from here--the beginnings of the haze.  

“No,” Winston says.  Or, wheezes, really.  He has been inhaling in the dead lands for days, and it is apparently beginning to affect his breathing.  Marin makes a mental note to pass this information along to Alan as she walks a tightrope at the edge of the grey.

“Perhaps,” she says, “if you would be willing.”

Winston pauses in his incessant, frantic pacing.  His eyes, the pupils blown large, hiding well the blue of his irises, land on her--and stay there, the first time they have settled since she and Garth had first arrived.  He blinks largely, slowly.  Moisture, visible even at feet of distance, gathers at the corners of his gaze.

“Go in there?” he asks hoarsely.  His voice cracks on the last word.  Weakness, perhaps, or else the continuing effects of breathing dead, dying, _dead_ air.

“Not _in_ there, necessarily,” Marin corrects.  She longs for her sunglasses, forgotten back at the motel in her haste to get out here earlier that morning.  She had been rushing Garth--who had been grumbling incessantly and rubbing the crust from the corners of his eyes like a child--out of the door without breakfast and without pausing to check on what she herself had been leaving behind.  “Nearby, perhaps.  Photographs.  Samples from closer to the center.”

She entertains, as she speaks, the idea that this will comfort him.  Closer, she says, but not inside of it.  Not on top of it.  Not _too_ close.  But even before she finishes the last suggestion, it becomes obvious that this is exactly the wrong thing to say.

Winston’s features contort into a snarl.

“You’ve got your samples,” he hisses.  “If your brother can’t make do with those, well, then, he’s shit out of luck, Morrell.”

_I’m not so certain he’s the one who’s going to be shit out of luck._  An uncharitable thought.  She feels guilty about it, almost, only not.  Not really.  It isn't as if he can hear it, after all.  She's entitled to the privacy of her own mind, still.

“Of course,” is what she says out loud.  “Alan is working diligently on the soil I delivered to him.  But don’t you think it would be unwise to assume that this is the only dead star that will fall to earth during this apocalypse, Winston?”

Garth, who has been following her directions to a fault and has stayed quiet for the entirety of the meeting thus far, twitches.

Winston doesn't notice.

“The Bible only mentions one Wormwood,” he says through his teeth--bared, and yellowing, and lined with the brown remnants of food.  

“Of course,” Marin says.  “But it also claims that Lucifer will inevitably lose.  Are you just going to sit back and let the war run its course because a book suggested that victory might be a foregone conclusion?”

This is the fourth time she has delivered this speech.  The _fourth time_.  It’s like driving her head repeatedly into an angsty brick wall--she is the only one who feels the pain of it, and not one thing sinks in.  How these people--these _hunters_ \--have gotten themselves so stuck on the holy gospel according to Heaven that it hasn't yet occurred to them that it might be weighed in the favor of one particular side, a side they probably don’t want winning just as much as the other, darker option, is entirely beyond her.  

They are cornered, as humans.  Cornered, and severely outmatched, and all but guaranteed a quick and horrifically painful death.  Made all the more unavoidable by the fact that they simply cannot see what’s right there in front of them.  Marin would give up, only she doesn't quite know how to.

Winston blinks at her, still slow, still enormous.  There is yellow tinging the whites of his eyes.  She wonders vaguely if he is suffering from liver failure.

“So,” he says eventually--the word is drawn out, and there is a slur to it, something not-quite-right, not-quite-natural.  Garth, she sees, is stiffening where he stands, bracing himself.  “You’re saying there’s gonna be another?”

“In all likelihood,” Marin affirms.  “And, you know, it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Winston stares at her for another moment more.  His blinking is becoming more rapid, and his mouth is hanging open.  She can see his wheels turning inside his head--or rather, she can see his wheels _trying_ to turn, but there is something getting caught in the spokes.  Gumming up the works, as they say.

The fit, when it comes, is not all that much of a surprise.

Winston does not collapse to the ground so much as he crashes into it--his entire body hits as one, sending a small puff of grey dust into the air.  Garth, ready, lurches into immediate action.  He crosses the hard line without even a fraction of a second of a pause, stopping not even to adjust as he curses and presses the sleeve of his jacket over his mouth.

“Air’s weird,” he grunts at her, coming to a stop at Winston’s side--he is writhing on the ground, twisting and turning this way and that.  Garth has to perform some creative maneuvers to get a hand on him.

“I would say that we should take him to the hospital,” Marin muses as she watches Garth drag the shaking man from out of the grey and back onto the green, “but I’m not sure there’s a doctor in the world who could productively treat this.”

“Motel, then?” Garth grunts.  There is a sheen of sweat on his brow and, when he drops Winston’s arm to the grass and lifts his own to wipe his forehead, she sees grey residue gathering in his nail beds.

“Yes,” she says, and looks back down at Winston--now curled into the fetal position, his fingers burying themselves in his thinning hair.  “Yes, the motel.”

She’ll be calling Alan sooner rather than later, then.

\--

_September, 2009_

_Beacon Hills, California_

Peter slinks in just after six in the evening, lurking in the shadows of the loft.  Because, apparently, being annoying isn’t enough, he has to bring an entire bucket of creepy as all hell along with him, too.

Derek ignores him, mostly.  He has a scent about him that suggests Stiles Stilinski, but there is also a fine layer of grease that seems to cling to him, speaking loudly of a fast food joint.  Derek doesn’t see any cause for concern in either of those things--if Peter had harassed Stiles in a public place, then Stiles had, undoubtedly, handled himself.  There’s no hint of blood in the air, but instead irritation, and perhaps uncertainty.  Which, whatever.  Stiles has that effect on a lot of people.

He’s eating a microwave dinner--watery mashed potatoes and a round steak like a hardened coin of fake meat.  Hunched over his too-large dinner table in his too-large apartment, picking at rubbery food, alone but for his undead werewolf uncle--it’s sad, and pathetic, and if he’d let himself examine it, he’d probably completely lose his mind, which is why he doesn't.  Instead, he shoves his fork into his hardened steak and saws at it with a dulled knife--something very close to futility--and absolutely does not look too hard at the current state of his life.

Peter skulks around the spiral staircase for awhile, exuding a desperate need for attention, and Derek gnaws on a piece of meat that he thinks might actually have a bone in it and pretends with extreme prejudice that he is not there at all.  His uncle tolerates this for another twelve minutes, at the end of which Derek absolutely bites down on a bone and spits it out on his plate.  There is a click of a tongue following this, and then Peter is crossing the room, lips curled into an offensive and nasty smirk.

“That didn't sound pleasant,” he says in an oily tone, leaning over the back of the empty chair set at the table across from Derek.  He braces his hands on the smooth metal surface between them.  His claws are peeking out of the tips of his fingers.  Derek grunts a little and looks back down at his dinner.

“What do you want?”

He actually  _hears_ Peter lift an eyebrow.  “Is that any way to speak to your only uncle?”

Derek rolls his eyes and shoves his chair back from the table, getting to his feet and picking up his still half-full plastic tray.

“I’m only going to ask one more time,” he says as he turns away and starts for the kitchen.  As expected, Peter trails after him.   _Talking_.

“Forgive me,” he says, petulant, “for wanting to warn you about Stiles Stilinski’s bizarre behavior.”

Derek snorts.  Scrapes the remains of his meager dinner into a tupperware container before running the plastic tray beneath the tap for a minute to wash away the bits of meat and potato still clinging to it.

“Stiles’ behavior is always bizarre,” he says, “and I don’t see why either of us should be worrying about it.”

It’s a kind of throw away comment, but it’s also meant as a warning-- _leave that kid the fuck alone or I will absolutely fuck you up--_ and he knows, based on the way Peter’s back straightens ever so slightly in the corner of his vision, that his uncle has picked up on it.  Derek shoves the plastic tray into the dishwasher--the thing’s _reusable_ , don’t judge him--and turns to face Peter fully, crossing his arms over his chest.  He lifts one eyebrow of his own as he waits for a response.

But Peter, for once, weighs his words carefully.  

And the hairs on the back of Derek’s neck lift as one.

“There is a man,” the beta says slowly, eventually.  “I saw him in the McDonald’s on the edge of town--confronted him, because everything about him is off.  Unnatural.  The scent of him is-- _not_.”

Because that makes perfect sense.

“ _Not_ ,” Derek echoes flatly.  

“Meaning it is not something that can be explained, Derek,” Peter says--as if he is speaking to a very small and particularly thick child.  Derek bristles.  “You will have to smell it for yourself to understand.”

“Right,” Derek snaps back.  “Sure, I’ll get right on that.  The McDonald’s on the edge of town, you said?  I’ll go now--I’m sure he’s still there.”

Peter smirks.  “No.  No, he’s not, because he left with Stiles.”

Derek freezes.

Peter’s vicious smile grows.  Like he's won, or he's going to win, and only because Derek gave him the weapon he's been needing.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “I thought that’d get your attention, nephew.”

His jaw is clenched so hard, he’s honestly surprised his teeth haven’t just shattered yet.  His claws are pricking, insistent, at his palms.  He keeps his arms crossed to hide them--best not to give Peter any further satisfaction.  Because that is clearly what at least half of this is about.  Getting him on edge.  Off balance.  Looking for an opening.  Derek’s been waiting for Peter to make a move since he ripped his way out of the ground in the spring, and he’s getting impatient.  This, or anything, really, could be it.  It's exhausting, the watching.  The _bracing_.  Derek is used to keeping his guard up, but this--this cat and mouse game, in which he is fully aware he is the mouse, for all that he is an alpha--takes it to an entirely different level.

“What did you say to him?” he demands, the words coming in a growl.

Peter lifts his eyebrows.  “Stiles?  Oh, just that he’s still a very poor liar--”

“No,” Derek cuts him off.  He knows his eyes are flashing red--Peter’s smirk has become shark-like in his small victory, yet another in what is rapidly becoming a long line--but he just _can’t help it_.  “What did you say to the guy?”

“The guy Stiles left with?”  Words spoken with obvious intent, and with a pause meant to give him all the time in the world to think about it.  Derek hides his seething as best he can, and stares Peter down when he waits, and waits, and waits before he continues.  “I told him that it is very clear to me that he is not human, and that I know where he came from.”

“And do you?”

“Do I what?”

Derek grinds his aching teeth.  “Do you know where he fucking came from, Peter.  Do you know what he is.”  They aren't questions, aren't even demands.  There's no point in asking if he's not going to get a straight fucking answer.

Peter’s smile grows large enough to expose his dropped fangs.  

“I have a theory,” he says.  “A crazy theory, even for me.”

“And that is?”  Derek takes a step forward, just to make it clear that he’s had enough of Peter’s shit for one night, thank you very much.  And, finally, _he_ is rewarded, _he_ wins a small battle--by his uncle tensing, if only a little.  But he also rolls his eyes, and sighs as if Derek has caused him some great inconvenience by just about forcing him to speak via vague physical intimidation.

“I am fairly certain,” he says, in an irritated tone that matches perfectly his newly irritated expression, “that he is the first of the demon horde.”

Derek blinks, and blinks again.

“I’m sorry.  What.”

Peter gets a strangely pitying look on his face.  It’s creepy, and weird, and it’s all Derek can do not to launch himself forward and tear it right off of his stupid skull.

“Oh, nephew,” he murmurs.  “How have you not noticed?”

“Noticed what?” Derek snarls.  He has quite literally had _enough_.

Peter looks at him with dangerously hungry eyes.  Bares his teeth.  Doesn't bother to hide his slight shift--his forehead elongates, and his eyes deepen to a dark and bright blue.  His claws slip all the way out and hang, long and deadly, at his sides.  It is not a transformation that has been brought on by loss of control, Derek thinks, his own hackles rising, but something else entirely.  It is as if Peter is excited.  Peter is excited, and his wolf is responding in kind.

And if that isn't royally fucked up, he doesn't know what is.

“The end times,” Peter breathes after a moment, his voice low and husky and disturbing.  “The Apocalypse.”

Derek stares.  

And Peter, around his transformation, around his fangs and his sudden panting--

Peter continues to smile.


	6. the world's a beast of a burden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from "What the Water Gave Me," by Florence and the Machine.
> 
> Thanks everybody again for the kudos! :)
> 
> I have to apologize for the massive gap between the updates. NaNo fucked me up a little, and changing writing styles 1000 times within the span of a couple of months got me all screwed up with this story. This chapter is a little rough because of that. I'm trying to get back into the groove. 
> 
> Also, if you wanna talk to me about this fic or others, I made a blog dedicated solely to my love of fanfiction. http : / / andlookedawhile . tumblr . com / Come harass me about updates/give me recs/talk about feelings! :)
> 
> In my happy universe (other than the Apocalypse, obviously), Boyd’s sister is still alive. Also, the alpha pack doesn’t exist. And, in all honesty, it’s because I’m juggling too many characters, and I can barely keep track as it is. :) I need to learn to take notes. 
> 
> It also just occurred to me that a lot of the plot movement so far has taken place in a McDonalds. Which, obviously, is copyrighted by McDonalds, but is also inexplicable. I guess I just think about McDonalds a lot.
> 
> There is a scene in this chapter that features some Latin that comes from Google Translate. I wrote it, and I can't guarantee the accuracy. In fact, I doubt it's accurate at all. The translation should be: “and returned to the fire is the child of evil, the spawn of the morningstar.”
> 
> Thanks for reading!

_July, 2009_

_Beacon Hills, California_

Erica’s walking to Boyd’s.  For “date night,” or whatever.  He’d texted her an hour ago and said that his parents were taking his sister to see some animated movie and that she could come over, if she wanted.  Which, that could mean about a thousand different things, none of which Boyd specified or even hinted at in the text, and so she stops at the drugstore to pick up condoms on her way to his house.

You know, just in case.

Anyway, she’s in the drugstore, right?  Perusing the condom aisle.  Debating.  She’s felt Boyd’s dick before, obviously, but, like.  Never seen it?  She has to guess at a size, or else get a couple of options, just to be on the safe side.  Whatever.  The point is, she’s kind of lingering.  Studying the various options.  

And, out of absolutely nowhere, she smells it again.  

That scent from the McDonalds.

The _death_ smell.

Erica drops the box she’s holding.  

She knows she’s not imagining it.  Because, while it is obviously the scent from the McDonalds, it also kind of isn’t.  Because it’s stronger.  Like, someone shoved like forty air fresheners into the AC unit, only they were contaminated, or else some totally gross joke, because it is like a literal haze of rotting eggs right now.  

It has been seven days, since that last time.  Since Boyd had gone rigid beneath her hands the way he’d been when they’d--well, when they’d run away and nearly gotten cornered by that other pack.  That pack that had sounded like nails over a chalkboard--unnatural and high pitched and _wrong_ in ways she still can't explain.  She had thought, at the time, in the McDonalds, that she had done something wrong.  Or, she’d thought that before she’d smelled it, and then--

The hairs on the back of her neck rise, and Erica, without thinking about it, ducks.

She’s still learning.  Teaching herself, really, because fuck if she’ll trust Derek with lessons on how to be a werewolf.  Not after the end of last school year.  She’s not even really in his pack anymore--she and Boyd, they’ve built their own pack, with just the two of them, the only two people in the world they’re each entirely sure can be trusted.  And it’s fine.  It’s great.  Only she has to teach herself to do werewolf things, and she still can’t exactly and immediately pinpoint the origin of a smell.

Even a smell as _fucking disgusting_ as this one.

She stares at the condom box sitting on the floor in front of her, closes her eyes, and breathes.

The problem is, it seems like it’s everywhere.  Coming from all sides and just _assaulting_ her nose.  Closing in thick, noxious walls, making a real effort at fucking strangling her, and it’s nearly enough to send her crashing to her knees.  Erica grits her teeth, feels fangs biting into her bottom lip, probably smudging her lip gloss, and presses her fingers, her claws, into the metal of the shelves in front of her.  

She’s shifting.  She’s going to fucking _completely_ shift in a drugstore, and this is all Derek’s stupid fault, it’s all his fault, because outside of a few shitty and painful lessons, what had he ever really taught her?  What had he ever really told her that had gone beyond _you can’t trust hunters_ and _breathe, just breathe_ , and _control your fucking body._

_Control your fucking body!_

She doesn’t know how.  That’s what she’d needed him for, for fuck’s sake.

He’s such a piece of shit.  She can’t believe she kissed him.

Her hands are shaking.  Sweat is pooling in the creases of her nose, and at the base of her spine.  She bites down hard on her bottom lip, fangs and all, and feels and tastes blood, and thinks, _fuck the consequences_.  Breathes hard through her nose and screws her eyes shut and thinks about weaving daisies into her cousin’s long brown hair and the scent of her father’s famous homemade macaroni and cheese and the way Boyd smiles at her sometimes when he thinks she isn’t looking.

It is as she is focusing on the way her mother warms wash cloths when she is sick, presses them to her forehead when she is too tired to get out of bed--or, used to, because, Erica realizes abruptly, she is a werewolf now, and she doesn’t know if she can get sick like that anymore--that the rest of the world snaps back into vicious, extreme focus.

She hears his voice, as if through water, as if from a great distance, a distance almost-too-large, even for a werewolf.  

“These chocolates, with the peanut butter.”

The cashier--Erica can’t remember what he looked like beyond teenage and lanky--sounds bored, almost dismissive, when he asks, “What about them?”

She cannot see the man’s face, can barely hear him speak, still, but--but she can picture the way his mouth must curve then.  Shark-like.  Predator.

She’s practiced the same damn expression in the mirror.

“It almost,” he says, “ _almost_ justifies this stupid world, kid.”

The cashier doesn’t reply.  Erica pictures him rolling his eyes as he rings the guy up--hears the cash register click and beep and the slide of the drawer escaping from the body.  He doesn't know.  He doesn’t realize the danger he’s in.  Even Erica doesn’t, and she can--she can fucking _smell_ him, and it’s enough to make her--make her want to just lose her lunch all over the floor.  Her stomach is churning and she wants to run and she can’t seem to make her claws retract into her fingers, her fangs disappear into her gums.

She does not know what makes her stand back up.

The back of the guy’s head--and he’s just a _guy_ , and how the fuck is that possible--is fucking lame.  Just, like, thinning brown hair.   _Painfully_ average.

She wants to claw his skin off, or flee as fast and as far as she possibly can.

Erica stands, still, perfectly still, as the kid--floppy blue hair, and a nose ring, with a sullen expression--shoves the Reeses into a plastic bag.  He pushes it across the counter to the guy, who takes it and, moving in a way that does not at all look natural to the body--smooth where it should have been awkward, erect where it should have been stooped--turns towards the door.

When he glances at her, she thinks that what she feels--it must be what getting struck by lightning is like.  Paralyzing.  Unable to move, unable to breathe, every single atom of her body wound _too tight_.

Their eyes meet.

His lips curl into exactly the smile she sees in the mirror when she’s trying too hard.

His gaze is entirely black.

\--

_July, 2009_

_Somewhere in Colorado_

“Tell me again,” Sam says.

Stiles rolls his eyes.  Or, he rolls his eyes, and his shoulders, and his wrists, because Stiles can never just move one part of his body.  It’s like he twitches one piece of himself, and everything else feels the need to follow suit.  Sam used to think it was the product of discomfort, in the early days.  Now, however, he is not so sure.

“I have had,” he says, in the tones of the long suffering, “a lot of experience with the supernatural.”

“Specifically?”

“Werewolves,” a glare, “which, dude, we agreed we weren’t talking about.  The first rule of the Running From Our Shit Club is not discussing Our Shit, right?  Period.  No talking about it.  Ever.  Or at least until one of us decides to go back, which.  I’m not breaking down first, so we're waiting on you, really.”

There are times, or at least there have been, in recent days, when Sam has forgotten, or perhaps let himself forget, that this kid is only a teenager.  But this, with the long and complicated names, the suggestion of excess capital letters, the twisting, winding, meandering thinking-out-loud--this is what reminds him.

He fumbles a little with the tiny door knob.  Stalling.

Stiles lifts an eyebrow.  Crosses his arms over his chest and looks _supremely_ unimpressed.

“Gonna open the door, dude?”

Sam waffles a moment, and then drops all pretense, and his hand from the door.

“It’s just,” he starts, “demons are a whole ‘nother animal, Stiles--”

“Werewolves aren’t animals.”

Flat.  In that distrustful tone he still sometimes got, when the supernatural came up and their conflicting views started to rub each other the wrong way.  A colder look.

“I didn’t mean,” Sam starts again, but then stops immediately.  Because he had.  He had meant that, hadn’t he?

Stiles stares at him for another long, uncomfortable moment.  With intent.  Obviously trying to wrong foot him.  And--and it’s _working_.  This kid’s got power over him, Sam realizes abruptly, and with a little horror.  This kid’s wormed his way beneath Sam’s skin, carved a place for himself in Sam’s life, settled into a corner of Sam’s heart.  He’s got the power in this relationship, and there’s nothing Sam can do about it.  

_Jesus._

“I get it,” Stiles says.  Quick, and sharp, as if he can read the dark turn Sam’s thoughts have taken on his face, and, fuck if Sam knows, maybe he has.  “I know you didn’t mean it that way.  Just--are we gonna do this, or what?  Because I’m not a kid, Sam.  I’ve handled some shit in my time.  I can handle this shit, too, I promise.”

And, _Christ_ , Sam believes him.  Believes _in_ him.  Some real, heavy friendship crap.

This is probably more dangerous than anything he’s ever done in his life.  And, looking at his fucking life--

“Okay,” he says.  “Okay, okay, get ready.  Okay.”

“Okay,” Stiles echoes.  With a little sarcasm.  

Sam doesn’t begrudge him that.

He grabs the door knob and twists it open.  Doesn’t let himself think about it.  Just does it before he can lose his nerve, or let himself understand the full implications, the full consequences, of what he’s doing.

The motel room is torn to shreds.  It’s Sam’s--or, it’s under Sam’s name, though he has been sleeping on the sagging couch in Stiles’ room for the past two nights.  A round table, chipped in several places, alone in the corner, desolate without its matching chair.  A lamp sitting on top of it, the bulb long since burnt out.  A night stand beside the bed, with a clock radio that displays eights as zeros.  Peeling and stained wallpaper.  The only mattress--a twin, with a massive, gaping tear on one side--has been removed from the bed frame, and sits against the dresser and television.  It blocks most of the access to the room, which.  A contingency plan.  In case the _Do Not Disturb_ sign swinging from the door outside is ignored, and some poor employee comes in with all the good intentions in the world, looking to vacuum, or maybe change the sheets.  Rare, in a motel like this, with the room still occupied, but not unheard of.  He hopes, if it happens, the person will see the mattress and give up, turn around and walk out, shaking his or her head with disgust.

Leave, and not go further.  Not go into the bathroom and find the chair missing from the table, find the red paint and the blood and the demon.

 _Especially_ not the demon.

Stiles wrinkles his nose as he climbs over the bed frame, not waiting for Sam to start picking his way across the room.

“ _Damn_ , dude, was the rotting pizza smell really necessary?”

Sam’s not sure the pizza is on him.  He thinks it might be the demon, a new twist on the old sulfur vogue, but he doesn’t say it.  He watches Stiles pause before the closed bathroom door, the lines of his body suddenly uncertain.  The kid looks at him with huge brown eyes.

“We doing this?” he asks.  “Or what?”

He is tempted to say _or what_.  He thinks Stiles might actually listen to him now, here, confronted with it, with only a chipped slab of wood separating him from Hell itself.  But, again: Stiles is young, but he is _painfully_ brave, and _painfully_ determined, and even if he’s uncertain now, Sam knows, he will not be uncertain later.  He likes the kid, trusts him, even, but not with this.  He doesn’t trust Stiles not to sneak out of their room next door and back into this one later, if only to prove to himself that he can do it, he really _can do it_ , despite a moment of doubt earlier in the day.

“Yeah,” he says, and tightens his grip on his Bible, his cup of holy water.  “Yeah.”

He steps over the sagging bed frame, joins Stiles outside the bathroom door.

“Remember,” he says, putting his free hand on the knob.  “Remember to follow my lead, okay?”

Stiles’ jaw is too tight, and his eyes are too bright, and he looks afraid and excited and afraid.  He nods, says, “Yeah, I know,” hoarsely, a voice made thin by stress.  Sam holds his gaze for another long moment before he nods back, turns to the door and twists the knob.

He goes in first.

It's bright inside the bathroom.  Too bright, despite the flickering bulb over the sink.  The walls are washed so white, they are almost difficult to look at.  The red splashed across them is deeply obscene.  

It's all unholy, in Sam's mind.

The demon--an eleven year old boy, blonde, blue eyes that slide into black when he sees them--looks up and smiles a feral smile.

“Hey,” he says, as Stiles nearly chokes on the sulfurous air behind Sam, as they squeeze into the square foot of space not taken up by the demon trap that traces the floors, climbs up the walls and the cabinets and even the toilet.  “Winchester younger.  Gotta say--I’ve been wanting to meet you for a while.”

“Yeah,” Sam says.  He sounds tired to his own ears.  Maybe even a little irritated.  Stiles wriggles a little, pressed close to him so they can stand side by side.  “That’s nice.”

“You don’t have to sound so bored,” the demon says, pouting.  It is grotesque on the boy’s face.  

“Heard it a thousand times before,” Sam points out.  He holds the Bible up so it's in front of both him and Stiles, flips to the appropriate page.  “Not exactly my first time around the block.”

“Well, no,” the demon agrees.  His tongue slides over his upper lip in a way that is _entirely inappropriate_ for such a young mouth.  “Of course not.  Especially given,” and here he glances very deliberately at Stiles, his black eyes somehow alight with triumph, “the Apocalypse you started.”

Stiles, somehow, manages to cross his arms over his chest in the small space.  Rolls his eyes spectacularly to the ceiling, and shoots Sam an _is this a fucking joke_ look.

“Dude, really?  You really think I don’t know about that?”

The demon’s triumphant smirk flickers considerably.

“Look,” Sam sighs, “let’s just do this, right?  Here, Stiles,” he nudges the kid, and points to the appropriate Biblical passage.  “All you have to do is read.”

Stiles blinks a few times.  Rapid, his long lashes casting wild shadows over his cheeks.

“Still seems weird,” he says, “that it would be so easy.”

“ _Easy?_ ” the demon snarls, composure breaking as easily as it always does, with his kind.  Spittle flies from his lips.  Some of it strikes the back of Sam’s hand.  He grimaces.  “You think it will be easy, do you, boy?  You may exorcise me,” eyes wild, too-wide, flickering oddly between black and bright blue.  Sam wonders, vaguely, if this is a young demon--one crawled out of Hell too early, too eager, one who might not have control, and might be out of his depth.  “Oh, yes, you may exorcise me.  But you cannot--you cannot stop me from climbing back out of the Pit.  You cannot stop my brothers and sisters from crawling out of the Pit, oh _no_.  We will come from above you, Stiles Stilinski, and we will come from below.  We will come at you from all sides, until you are surrounded, cornered, and then we will see--we will see if you are so convinced then of the _simplicity_.”

Stiles is staring at the demon.  He has a very odd look on his face.

“Stiles,” Sam says loudly--the demon is still ranting, but his words have become fragmented, more noise than any actual sensical thing.  “Stiles, he’s just talking.  Just read, okay?”  He bumps the boy again, this time with more force, and shoves the Bible at him, pressing his finger firmly to the page.

Stiles opens his mouth, and then shuts it again, clears his throat, tears his eyes away from the young face, the ugly twist to it.  “Et rediit puero ignis mali ex ovulis matutina,” he begins hoarsely.  His fingers join Sam’s on the Bible and grip too tightly.

“I will find you at the end!” the demon screams.  His eyes are rolling back in his head.  The words are obviously doing their job.  “I will find you at the end, Stiles Stilinski, and I will gut you myself, strangle you with your own innards, feast on your eyes, your tongue, your weak human heart, and you will beg for mercy and I will laugh and laugh and laugh, you _filthy little_ \--”

Something large works its way up the boy’s throat.  Visible, and undulating, and Stiles falters for a moment, staring, but picks right back up again before Sam needs to step in.  And the demon fights--it tries the way they always do--but his mouth opens as if it has been pried--and the smoke, it lingers behind his lips, pressing down on the boy’s tongue, his flickering black and blue eyes rolling back in his head, but--

The demon erupts, twists in the air above the open mouth beneath it, trying visibly to turn around--Stiles’ voice rises wildly, cracking at random intervals, his Latin flawed, but good enough, and then--

The smoke collapses to the ground, the glowing embers of a dying fire, and sinks into the ceramic tiles of the floor, disappears entirely from the world.

The ringing silence that follows is broken only by the sound of Stiles’ ragged breathing, and the thud of the Bible hitting the floor, falling open over the wide red curve of the demon trap.

Stiles himself does not fall, but he does slump, hand flying out to catch the counter.  He grips it too hard, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.  Sam, after a moment of uncertainty, decides to reach out.  Stiles is not Dean, and he has never recoiled from physical contact.

“It wasn’t,” Stiles says after Sam grasps his shoulder for a solid thirty seconds.  “It wasn’t easy.”

Sam closes his own eyes.  Squeezes the kid a little.  

“It never is,” he confesses softly.

\--

_September, 2009_

_Beacon Hills, California_

__

“Hi,” Scott says, a little too brightly.

Stiles is sitting on the bleachers.  He’s brought his lacrosse stick out, and he’d fetched it with every intention of using it--to the best of his ability, which would not be much, not dealing with a werewolf.  But, exercise, right?  Not that he really needs it, after the year of _running for his life_ that he’s had.  Anyway, now he doesn’t want to use it--the stick, that is--so much.  He doesn’t want to do anything, really, other than sit here and stare a little and maybe just enjoy his best friend’s presence, just his presence, in a way he hasn’t been able to in a long time.

“Hey,” he replies--and he’s trying, he is, he’s trying _so fucking hard_ , but one look at Scott’s face, and the way it kind of collapses in on itself, tells him that he’s fallen horrifically flat.  

There is a painfully awkward pause.  Stiles wishes he could evaporate, cease to exist, or maybe just run.  Run away, because he is just so tired of all of this.  Now.  Just for now.  He just needs a fucking break, is all.  He thinks he’s fucking earned that, okay?

Scott takes a deep breath, starts, “Look, if you didn’t want to--”

“It’s not--Scott, it’s not that,” Stiles snaps.  Before Scott can launch into another speech about how well he understands and make Stiles feel like the absolute worst person in the world.  Again.  The teenage werewolf looks at him for a moment, his mouth hanging open in that dopey way that Stiles could see a thousand times and still find endearing, before blinking and trying again.

Stiles doesn’t have the energy to stop him, this time.

“It’s just,” Scott breaks off immediately, shifting, and then drops his lacrosse bag on the bench beneath them and sinks to sit next to Stiles, his entire body flopping just about everywhere.  “I just feel like--I get why you left, okay?  I understand.  But--but I’m trying to mend bridges here, and it feels like.  It feels like every time I’ve seen you since you’ve been back, you haven’t--you haven’t wanted to see me.  And I get it!  I do!  I just wish--”

It’s, again, everything that makes Stiles feel like a giant, steaming, maggoty piece of shit sitting on the sidewalk on a hot and humid summer day.

Another silence, Scott’s voice trailing off into nothing.  They sit side by side on the bench for a moment, not looking at each other, and Stiles doesn’t know about how Scott feels about looking at him, but he knows that he’s not going to look at Scott because if he sees those puppy dog eyes, he’s absolutely going to break down.  Just--just fall to pieces, and spill everything, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to do that yet, and he’s not sure if it’s even his place to do that, right, because it’s Sam’s business, and Gabriel’s business, and yeah, it’s the Apocalypse, but it’s also intensely personal.  And _complicated_.  And, like, really easy to misunderstand--he knows that from personal experience.  And just--fuck.  

_Fuck._

“I need you to give me something here,” Scott continues finally, quietly.  “Tell me how to start to fix this.  Because I know--I know I’m the one who mostly broke it.  So just, tell me.  Tell me what to do, Stiles, because you’re my best friend, and I know I didn’t act like it at the end of last year, but I don’t--I don’t want to lose that.”

And he just sounds so _sad,_ and so _lost,_ and so _young and small,_ and so unlike _himself,_ or unlike what Scott McCall is supposed to be, when in the vicinity of Stiles Stilinski, and Stiles can’t help himself.  He just can’t _help himself,_ okay?  He sneaks a peek.  And Scott’s hair had gotten a little longer over the summer, and it’s flopping over his eyes now, enhancing his _extremely irritating_ boyish charm.  And he’s adopted his _apology pose_ \--an oldie, but goodie, that works on his mother, like, 92% of the time.  Elbows on his knees.  Hands laced in front of him.  Head bowed.  Bowed as if--

As if in prayer.

Stiles swallows and looks away.

“We both fucked up,” he says, staring determinedly at the shadowed tree line on the other side of the field, even when Scott turns to look at him with surprise that is obvious even in his peripheral vision.  “I didn’t leave to get away from you.  I left to get away from all of it.  And I should’ve--I should’ve made that clear.”

“The werewolf stuff,” Scott says, both a question and not.

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters.  “Just--I couldn’t breathe, you know?”

Scott lets out an enormous breath.  He sags, his warmth seeping into Stiles’ space, as if an impossible weight has been lifted off his shoulders.  And Stiles--Stiles knows he’s partly responsible for that weight, and he knows he should feel like shit for putting it there, and he definitely does, but he also feels--he also feels a bit _better_ , watching Scott slump in naked relief because--because even though he did some damage, before the summer, he’s also--

He’s also managed to fix it.

Sort of.

They stare at each other for a moment.

And then Scott--

Scott _smiles._

“You wanna,” he starts, leaning fully into Stiles and nudging him with his elbow, “toss the ball around?  A little?”

And Stiles--Stiles thinks of Peter.  Thinks of Peter and his creepy as fuck attitude.  Thinks of how afraid he was of Gabriel.  Gabriel, who had tracked him--had tracked _Stiles_ \--halfway across the world and begged him to call Sam.  Sam, who’s, as they speak, driving across the country with his brother and an angel in tow, intent on confronting the Messenger of God and stopping an Apocalypse.  

And he thinks of a too-bright motel bathroom in Colorado, of a too-young face and a too-vicious smile.

And then, for what feels like the first time in forever, he looks at Scott’s bright, sunshiney face, and his easy, hopeful grin.

"Yeah," he says, and smiles back.


	7. i climbed the tree to see the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so. I accidentally replied to some comments on my other account (the one that people from work know about, which was why I deleted those replies, hahahaha). Not my finest moment. I swear, I’d forget my arms in the morning if they weren’t attached to my body.
> 
> Also, I am so sorry for the wait. Again. Real life keeps getting in the way! :(
> 
> It occurs to me now that I am more concerned with the development of relationships than I am with plot. At least at this point. It is my hope that this will change in the next few chapters. 
> 
> Also, this chapter represents my first attempt at Derek-Stiles interaction. I love Sterek, it is one of my favorite ships of all time, and I am deeply terrified that I will not be able to do it justice. Let me know if you have any thoughts/advice about that!
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from "To Build a Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra.

_September, 2009_

_Beacon Hills, California_

****  


The town of Beacon Hills tastes of sulfur and ash and impending death.

Castiel feels the shadows in the air like pollution, like a foreign build up in the small spaces in between the feathers of his wings.  Like something heavy, some kind of toxic moisture settling on the skin of his vessel.  He straightens his back, flexes the meager remains of his Grace, presses as much as he can against the closing walls of Hellish influence.  In the front seat, silent and trapped within the confines of their own concerns, Sam and Dean do not notice his discomfort--or if they do, they do not speak of it.  But this is not unusual.  Sam and Dean speak a great deal, but in spiraling circles around uncomfortable topics.  In most ways, for all of their words, they rarely say anything at all.

It is late when they arrive, and the human inhabitants of the town have since retired to sleep, the witching hour come and long gone.  The garish blue light of the clock on the dashboard in front of him tells him it is 3:39 in the morning when they pull up to the motel Sam had selected at a rest stop that morning--close to the boy, but not close enough to raise the suspicions of his father, who, Dean had explained, would probably “pump Sam full of lead if he knew half of the shit the moron involved the kid in over the summer.”  Sam had turned an ugly shade of green when Dean had said this, somewhere in the the rolling hills of a state called Wyoming, and his jaw had tightened and he had looked away out the window to hide his face.  Castiel had been tempted to reach out to him then, because Sam has always been more accepting of comforting words and gestures than his brother, and Castiel thinks perhaps these words may have been too harsh, too damning, for whatever Sam had done with this boy, this Stiles Stilinski.  But then Dean had met his eyes in the mirror, and the words had died in his throat and his hand had dropped back to his lap.  He cannot explain what he saw in his friend’s gaze in that moment--nothing in anything of his eons of experience had prepared him for it, had given him the words to describe it, but it had stayed him, and he finds that he regrets it now, and he finds that he resents Dean for it, a little, for all that he does not understand it.  Because he does know, at least, that it--whatever it had been--it worries him.

He wonders if he has become subject to humanity.  Or, to one human specifically, which, in some ways--in most ways--is even worse.

He thinks on these things, as they pull into the parking lot of the decrepit motel, as Sam tumbles out of the passenger seat and into the small lobby.  He begins, in the way of the reluctant and irritated, to think on Gabriel as well.  On his elder brother, glorious and honest, their father’s last voice, vanished from Heaven and presumed dead.  On what Dean and Sam told him of the being they had met years and years before--before Heaven and angels, Hell and demons.  Before everything went wrong--with the world, and between the two of them.  A simple trickster, Gabriel had been, with a taste for sweets and a twisted sense of humor and justice.  The idea of it leaves him aching, a cold space opening deep within the confines of his fading Grace, blossoming slowly and surely, filling him up inside, spreading to the very skin of his vessel.  

He wants to see Gabriel again.  

He loathes Gabriel more than even Lucifer himself.

Castiel blinks for a moment, shakes himself slightly to rid himself of the darkened thoughts, and squints through the window to the tiny and plain room inside the motel, finds too-bright and unnatural light, bleaching the yellow hair of the woman behind the counter into something ugly, colorless.  Dean sits, silent and stiff, in the front seat of the car.  His hands appear to be glued to the steering wheel.  Their silences are separate things, but they clash in the enclosed space of Dean’s car and spark a tension that Castiel--that Castiel cannot even begin to name.

Sam returns to the car abruptly, hunched, his hair flopping in front of his eyes.  “Room 18,” he says quietly, “‘round back.”

Dean grunts.  The Impala jerks backward after a moment, and then they are rumbling around to the backside of the motel, counting up from 11, 15, and finally, in the very center of the building, 18.  Dean backs into the space in front of the room, turns the car off, and storms out of his seat, slamming his door behind him.  He does not bother to fetch his bags from the trunk.

Sam lingers in his seat for a moment, staring at the darkened parking lot in front of him.  There are no lights here, and though Castiel can see, still, into the patch of trees that edges the pavement, the stunted, twisted bush rising from the earth almost directly in front of the Impala, the browned and rotting leaves that carpet the ground beneath it, he doubts Sam can discern anything other than the vague outlines of the tree trunks, slight variations of grey and black.  

Now that they are alone, without the black clouds of Dean’s influence hanging in their immediate vicinity, Castiel cannot help himself.

“Sam,” he begins softly, “you know that you are not--”

“I am fully responsible,” Sam cuts him off.  The words are flat, and strange, and they do not fit with Sam’s voice.  They choke off the fire that lingers in Sam’s soul, or at least they try very hard to.  Castiel finds that he hates them, that he hates those words for a moment, even more than he hates Lucifer, Gabriel.

His father.  

He reaches out and touches Sam’s shoulder.

“It seems to me,” he says, “that you gave Stiles Stilinski plenty of choices.”  This is the truth.  What little Sam has said of the boy--and it has been very little, as if Sam thinks, with halting words and half-stories, he can still find a way to keep Stiles out of it--which is a tragedy in and of itself, really, because no matter how hard Sam tries, no matter how long he stays away from Stiles, even if he had never crossed paths with the boy at all, humanity itself is _in it_ , so to speak.  But what little Sam has said of Stiles has suggested a strong will, and exactly the kind of determination, exactly the kind of fire, that Castiel has observed in Sam himself.  “You are not responsible for the path he took.”

“I should not,” Sam says, and his voice is returning, his normal voice, with all of the strain and the anger and the desperate, raw hope, “have given him the chance.  I should have sent him packing.

Castiel sighs.  He wishes, distantly, that his wings had not shriveled, become shadows of themselves.  He wishes-- _prays_ , really--that he still had the strength to embrace Sam with them, to support Sam with them.  He settles for squeezing his shoulder again instead.  It is the only kind of support, the only human support, he is entirely certain he knows how to give.

“It is not a sin to seek friendship.”

Sam shudders a little in his grip.  Inside the motel room, a silhouette in the muted light of a lamp by the window, Dean’s shadow dances behind the closed curtains--there is new tension in the lines of his shoulders.  He is wondering what they are doing out here, lingering in the car.  Castiel can almost see it, a living thing in a room with the Righteous Man--the growing suspicion.

Sam sees it, too.  He shakes off Castiel’s hand and shoves his door open.

“It is if you’re me,” he mumbles.  He slips out into the night and shuts the door between them.

 

\--

 

Later, when Sam leaves the apartment to find a machine from which to purchase sodas, Castiel says to Dean: "You are too hard on him."

And Dean looks at first angry, and then very tired, and then very sad.  He sits on the end of one of the sagging motel beds and drags his hands down his face.  

"Cas," he replies, "It's not about Sam and the kid.  It's about Sam and me."

****  


\--

****  


_September, 2009_

_Beacon Hills, California_

****  


One would think, given all the shit he’d learned over the summer, that Stiles would be more concerned about following the Commandments.  Because, like, Hell and stuff.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ.”

He’s not.  Or, at least, he’s not when he walks into his bedroom to find _unexpected alpha werewolves_ just, like, _hanging out_.

Derek levels him with a familiar, deeply unimpressed look.  Old Faithful.  Stiles flounders a little in the wake of the shock, and then grimaces, steps fully into the room and shuts and locks the door behind him.  His dad’s not home, but, whatever.  He’s in no mood to talk circles around this scenario.  Like, ever.

“Get your boots,” he says, staring at the dirt clinging to the soles of Derek’s feet and spilling onto his comforter, “off my bed, dude.  Like, now.”

Derek, lounging in the computer chair, looks at his feet propped on the bed, then at the piles of dirty laundry, leftover pizza, and discarded books scattered across the floor.

“Yes,” he says, deadpan, “because my feet off your bed is really what’s going to keep this room clean.”

Heat rushes to Stiles’ face.  So, nothing changed while he was off in Apocalypse La-La Land this summer.  Derek’s still an asshole, and he’s still going to treat Stiles like an irrelevant, terrible, possibly offensive joke, and that’s--that’s just.  It’s so not on, okay?  He’s had enough of this shit.  He’s tired, and he just spent two hours playing catch with Scott, and while it was nice, and progress, there was also a tension there, and he feels like he’s been holding himself still for 100 years, and he’s just--he’s not in the mood.  He’s not sure he’ll ever be in the mood.  He might even be done, at least with this, with Derek and his nonexistent pack.  

He’s tired of being an afterthought.

The alpha’s here, of course, but there’s no telling what for.  Stiles has already been struck by the impending doom of a conversation he’s not going to like.  Which, fuck that.

He sucks in a breath and puffs out his chest and opens his mouth to start shouting at Derek to get the hell out of his house.   _Yesterday._

And then Derek drops his feet.

Derek

_drops_

_his feet._

“We need to talk,”  he says, as the angry words sputter a little in Stiles’ mouth, tumble out in a kind of strangled, bumbled noise.  He sounds a little hasty.  Like he thinks Stiles might turn around and leave.  Like he doesn’t want that to happen.

Well, if nothing else, _that’s_ definitely new.

“Uh,” Stiles says.  Eloquently.  And then, mortified, and confused, and more than a little nervous, he starts to ramble, because, _defense mechanism_ : “Do we?  I don’t remember getting a memo.  Is there some kind of werewolf email list I haven’t been included on?  Because, like, a little warning?  It’s nice.”

(And, the werewolf email list?  He’s joking, but also--also, he wouldn’t be surprised if there _are_ one hundred group texts he hasn’t been included on.  Hadn’t been included on, even before he left.  Group texts, and get togethers, and conversations and inside jokes and--

He’s a part of this, he knows.  He’s been touched by werewolves, and they’ve seeped into his life like some kind of toxic, paralyzing fog, and he doubts that’s going to change anytime soon.  After all, Scott wants to fix things, and still wants to be his friend, even if--

Even if no one else does.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He’s in it, but he’s never really felt _in it_ -in it.

You know?)

Derek hesitates.  Looks totally shifty.  And that--that’s familiar.  That’s the same.  Something he knows how to deal with, at the very least.  Stiles slumps backwards against the door a little.  

“That,” Derek starts, and then breaks off.  His face scrunches up a little, as if he has swallowed a particularly slippery rabbit liver or some shit.  Whatever.  Stiles doesn’t know what he gets up to, running around in the woods.  “That--guy.  That Peter saw you with.”

And, what?

What.

_What._

Stiles stares for a moment.

“You and Peter have been talking about me,” he says, because he’s not sure what else he can say, and he’s not sure which part of that he wants to focus on more.  So he settles for the part he thinks he’s got a right to be indignant about, rather than the part that would inevitably end with him being forced to explain himself.  Which, yeah.  Definitely not ready for that.

“Peter has been talking _at_ me about you,” Derek says, nakedly defensive.  Which, hey, dude?  People who don’t have stuff to feel guilty about?  They usually don’t sound _guilty_.  Just saying.

“Right,” Stiles says.  Layers his words with acid.  Because this is the problem with running around with a bunch of werewolves--you don’t get an ounce of privacy, even if, like, 90% of said werewolves don’t really give a crap about you.  And, like, on the list of reasons why he left for the summer?  That shit ranked pretty high.  “So you and Uncle Creepy and Undead haven’t been sitting around in the burnt out shell of your home whispering sweet nothings about an underage boy, then?”

“No,” Derek snaps.  He sounds furious, and awkward, and embarrassed, and almost-wounded, somehow all at once, and there’s pink rising in his cheeks, and Stiles--it’s almost more than he can take, okay?  Because this is _Derek._  Derek, who’s never taken him seriously.  Derek, who’s threatened him with bodily harm more than once.  Derek, who’s saved his life.  Derek, who’s treated saving his life like some kind of irritating chore.  Derek, who, Stiles knows, would do anything to keep him safe because, beneath all of the prickly shit, that’s just the kind of guy he is.

This is Derek, and Stiles is Stiles, and this conversation--it’s the same and it’s different and it’s easy to read and it’s impossible to read and he doesn’t know where this is going and he does know that Derek’s going to have questions he can’t answer and questions he’s not ready to answer and--

He rolls his eyes and shoves himself away from the door.  Stalks to his bed and collapses onto it.  Face first.  Spreading himself out as much as he can and burying his face in his pillow.  It smells like last night’s Thai food and stale sweat.  

There might be something not right about that.

“Whatever,” he says into the pillowcase.  “Just say what you came to say.  You can get the hell out of my house quicker that way.”

There is a pause.  Frustration radiates from the general direction of his desk.

“Peter said,” Derek starts finally, sounding as if he is speaking through his teeth--or, possibly, his fangs, “that there was something...off, about this guy.”

Stiles snorts.  Speaks before he can overthink a response.  “Right.  And if Peter says there was something weird about him, well.  Must be royally fucked up, right?”

Another silence.  Stiles thinks he can hear Derek’s molars grinding together, and he can just imagine how murderously red his eyes are at this point.

“He also said,” is snarled after a moment, “that the two of you acted like you knew each other.”

“Peter wouldn’t know normal human interaction if it danced up to him wearing nothing but a grass skirt and kneed him in the balls, dude.”

A sharp intake of breath.  Harsh, and angry, sounding more wolf than human.  And then, definitely through fangs:  “Damn it, Stiles, I’m _serious._ ”

Stiles wonders vaguely if all of his insides have been sucked out through his belly button.

When he sits up and looks--because he can’t _not_ , not where he is, not with an angry alpha werewolf and the weight of a thousand lies and a thousand truths on his shoulders--Derek has not moved from the computer chair.  He hasn’t shifted either--or, if he did, he shifted back with remarkable speed.  His fangs aren’t out.  His fingernails are flat and rounded and human.  His eyes aren’t anywhere near red.  

“I know,” Stiles says quietly.  He does know.  Derek doesn’t seek him out to tell jokes, after all.  Derek doesn’t see him, period.  Not if he doesn’t have to.

“Peter is insane,” Derek replies immediately.  The comment’s pretty random, as far as what Stiles had expected him to say goes.  He’d been bracing himself, in the minuscule pause, for a bombardment of questions, and hissed demands for answers.  

“Okay?” he says slowly.  It comes out like a question.  “Everyone knows that, dude.  Old news.”

“Peter is insane,” Derek repeats, “but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know things.”

There is something, Stiles notices then, now that he's really _looking_ , in the expression on Derek’s face.  Something hunted--which, considering the vicious paranoia with which Derek is determined to lead his life, is saying something.  Something cornered.  Something that is very close to frightened.  Subtle, and not easy to pick out if you’re not looking for it, or if you haven’t interacted with Derek in life-threatening situations.  If your entire relationship with him, honestly, has been based in life-threatening situations.

It strikes Stiles, for only the second time in the last year, that Derek, while older than he is, is still quite young.  Is still, in all likelihood, just as out of his depth as Stiles himself is.

He has seen fear in Derek’s face before, but it has never manifested itself quite like this.

Every single hair on Stiles’ body stands up in unison.

“Well,” he says, slowly, carefully, “of course he knows stuff.  He couldn't be an evil genius without knowing stuff.”

Derek looks pained.  Pained, and resigned.  As if--as if he’d had realistic expectations for the way this conversation would play out, but he’d also had hopes, and Stiles had crushed them-- _crushed_ them--with those words.  And--

And--

“Stiles,” Derek says, and he sounds almost sad, almost apologetic, “was that man a demon?”

He knows.

_Of course_ he knows.

Stiles isn’t even that surprised.  He's just--

_tired._

He swallows around the growing lump in his throat.  Tangles his fingers together in his lap tightly enough to cut off the circulation.  Breathes for a second.

It is a testament, he thinks, to how fucked up it all is, that Derek keeps his mouth shut and just lets him stall.

They sit in silence for a full minute while he gathers every particle of courage he can muster.

“No,” Stiles admits finally, “he’s an angel.”

\--

****  


_Late August, 2009_

_South Boston, Virginia_

****  


The room is too small, and the air is too close.  The beds sag.  The wallpaper is brown and hideous.

Winston is vomiting something black into a shoe box Garth found beneath one of the beds.  Marin, sitting at the small round table tucked into the corner furthest from him, calls Alan.

“I am still working on the sample,” he says when he answers.  They have never been the type of family to bother with loving greetings.

“I would guess, then,” she replies, “that you have not yet gotten to concocting some kind of antidote.”

“Not yet,” Alan does not speak with bite, or irritation, only concern.  “Why?  Have you been infected?”

“No,” she says, and she glances at Winston--he has stripped himself of his shirt, and his skin is an ugly, mottled grey, stretched too tightly over his ribs and spine, bones that stand out, sharp, from his back.  Garth hovers over him, his eyes too-wide, his expression slack with horror.  Winston is hunched over his little box, heaving.  The black liquid hits the box heavily.  She wonders how long it will be before the bottom gives out.  “But Winston is ill.”

“How ill?”

Marin watches the man gasp, and shake.  He is so painfully human.  There is red mixed in with the black the next time he opens his mouth.

“Quite,” she says.

Alan lets out his breath, a burst of frustrated static over the line.  She can imagine well the expression on his face.

“Is he strong enough to move?”

Winston moans.  Garth turns vaguely greenish and takes a step back, lifting his wrist to press the sleeve of his jacket over his own mouth.

“Possibly,” she says.  “You want to see him?”

“It would certainly help.”  Alan pauses.  Heavily.  Then: “Is he dying?”

Marin stands and turns her back on the two men in the room with her.  She crosses her free arm over her stomach.  Outside the window, the sun sets, golden, peaceful, simple, over the rolling green hills across the street.  It is beautiful.  

Marin hates it.

“Yes,” she says.  With absolute certainty.

“Then bring him,” Alan replies immediately, and utterly without compassion.  “For an autopsy.”

“Very well.”

“I will see you in a week.”

“Yes.”

And then there is nothing left to say.

He hangs up on her, or maybe she hangs up on him.  The only sounds left in the room are the sounds of Winston’s sickness, and Garth's panicked attempts at reassurance, and slow and steady breathing.


End file.
